Hey, you party people! I'm back with an all new hit in the BBT section! WOOHOO! Anyway, this idea was floatin' around my dusty brain for quite some time before something went "ding!" and this pooped (popped?) out! What really inspired me to write this was the lack of Sheldon/OC stories. Now, don't get me wrong or anything; there are such stories out there. It's just that the all the OC's are so very alike :P I want mine to be different and have an amazingly shady past . . Here's hoping you like the way I portray Sheldon in this story. I'm trying to make him relate to his true character as much as possible. It's kinda weird to write actually, but amazingly fun!

Anyway, go ahead and enjoy and don't forget to review :D

Disclaimer: *curtains open* Don't own BBT *curtains close followed by roaring applause*

The Lovely Hypothesis

by CC333

Chapter One

Number 12

Number 13

Number14...

So far, the lower life forms behind me have managed to unsuccessfully launch 14 spitballs at me. All of which have managed to sail over my head or past my shoulder. For football jocks, their aim is off by a miraculous amount. However, I am still not amused.

From what I've gathered, Mr. Braxton's 3rd World History Class is just another period when the majority of my older, dumber classmates play around or attend to their rest needs. My pen is barely racing, my memory storing most of the info I'll need for future reference. A quick glance around the room is enough to ensure that everything was as it should be in the world. The sad excuses of students are failing, the smart, yet inferior to I, nerds and geeks are actually paying attention, and the teacher is in his usual state of intoxication. I set the black ballpoint pen down for a second and rub my writing hand while leaning back into my chair. As I do so, Number 15 flies right by my ear before rolling off my desk and onto the gray tiled floor below. I smirk secretly to myself as one of the apes grunts in frustration. Well, they can keep trying all they want but there's only about a minute and a half of this class to go. My books and supplies are already packed to ensure a quick exodus. Others are lazily packing up as well. Mr. Braxton doesn't seem to take notice, however. Or perhaps he just doesn't care. Trivial things such as this probably go unnoticed all the time when you're drunk. How he gets away with it and is still able to give a remotely legitimate lecture, who knows. He's certainly a clever one, hiding his little alcohol in an old Dr. Pepper aluminum can. His breath and slight slurring, however, sells him away faster than a full grown, healthy hog at the fair.

I cringe at the nature of the inference I just made. Hailing from the South does this sort of thing to you, I suppose.

The clock above the door in this classroom is exactly seven seconds off from my PDA, thus rendering it incorrect. Seeing as it's such a small distortion, I'll let it slide for now, but Mr. Braxton won't be so easily let off the hook as soon as it starts to hinder my schedule.

The ridiculous excuse for human beings behind me are still at their shenanigans by the time the school bell, which is four seconds off, activates and we are released from the clutches of the sour alcohol smell of that particular classroom. The notebook I had been taking notes is neatly, but hastily stashed into my side bag and I'm on my feet in no time. With books clutched tightly to my chest, I'm out of room faster than you can state the formula for finding the volume of a rectangular object.

Ahem, length times width times depth… just in case you hadn't figured it out yet.

"Hey Cooper", the low, predatory growl comes from behind me. My eyes widen and I quicken my speed, feeling like a African plains zebra in the presence of a creeping pride of lions. Oh friggity frack.

My ears detect a loud slam from behind me. My eyes scan quickly for an exit. Any exit. Another slam from behind. The pilomotor reflex snaps at the nerve endings under my skin, the age-old fight or flight response is frantically releasing adrenaline from their glands; I power myself onward, not daring to look back behind me. The bag slung across my shoulder flapped against my mid-thief, rustled by my almost jogging pace.

Just breathe and move, Sheldon. Breath and move. Breath and mo-

"ACK! LET GO OF ME, YOU COMPLETE WASTE OF HYDROGEN AND OXYGEN PARTICLES!"

They touched me. A meaty hand had landed on my shoulder and that was enough to crack me. Forgetting all previously-chanted meditations, my survival skills kick in and I soon become the striped African plains mammal that only had one thing on its mind: Not becoming the oafish lions' little snack.

The enormous gorilla hand tries to yank me backwards, but I manage to only stumble a bit before taking off sprinting. Their heavy footsteps and cursing fill my ears as the pursuit quickens. There's no way I can outrun them, not for long at least. They're so significantly older, larger, and stronger than I. My graceful built wasn't meant for such pettiness. There must be close-by exit that could save my hide, but there seems to be no such thing in sight. My options are limited. If memory serves me right, which it always does, there would be a couple of restrooms in the next hallway.

I turn the next corner quick, almost sliding before picking up what small amount of speed I possessed. Then, pushing open the thick wooden door, I leap inside of the bathroom and close the door hastily but silently. My ear hovers close to the door as the thick footsteps and conversation of "Where is that little punk?" pass by. Turning around and leaning against the door heavily, a sigh escapes my lips as I close my eyes and try to meditate again.

The peace, as usual, doesn't last long.

The sound of a wet, pitiful sob echoes off the gray slab walls of the lavatory. A small teenager has hoisted herself onto the white counter, her back to the dribbling faucets and paper towel dispensers. Her curly hair covers the majority of her face effectively but fails to disguise the tears wobbling over the curve of her cheeks. She doesn't seem to recognize that I have entered the bathroom. For one serious fraction of a second, I had to reach into my sub-conscience and scrutinize on whether or not I had observed the popular gender-indicating sign bolted to the door. There's a good, okay, rather definite chance that I just entered the female bathroom instead of the male's. Rolling my eyes, the free hand that is not supporting my books and is clenched in a fist hits the door behind me.

As is always the case with accident-prone young men such as I, walking into the wrong bathroom never quite settles with you, no matter how many times it happens. With my ever expansive memory, for soome reason, my mind thinks back to when Mother would take me in the bathroom with her and how I never questioned when I'd get to use the "big boy's potty" instead of sharing a stall with her.

Another sob is emitted from the African-American girl on the counter before a different female, this one Caucasian and sporting an excess amount of make-up and revealing clothing, exits one of the four green stalls and stares at me before calling me a "freak" and advancing towards myself and the door. I take a step to the right to get out of her way and end up accidentally leaning against one of the unlocked stall doors. Falling through immediately, my books are released from my grip and splay across the floor as I catch my self just in time to prevent my head from knocking against the porcelain toilet. With horrific realization, I reel back and stare down at the hands which broke my fall, but also came in contact with the seat itself. The bottle of hand sanitizer I carry around is in my closed bag but most definitely won't be enough. Scrambling up off the bathroom floor, I almost fall again making a mad dash for the sinks.

The girl is still there. Her sobs have quieted a bit, though.

Frantically, my hands are wetted and disappear in a soapy cloud. After four minutes of thorough scrubbing, I thank the heavens for not sending any more girls with the need to empty their bladders into the room. I try not to pay too much attention to the now silent girl sitting next to me, her legs still hanging over the sink counter. It's hard, however, to do such a thing with this particular individual, I soon find out. She has a certain…glow. As I shake the last remaining drops of water into the tan sink bowl while simultaneously activating the hand dryer mounted on the wall to my left, my own eyes betray me and steal a glance, directed not directly over, but at her reflection.

Through the mirror the spans the whole wall, I observe that she is still slumped over and emits an aura of melancholia, even with her sobs no longer bouncing off the blue-painted walls. There isn't much I can gather about her face from this angle, of course, but once again, I find my eyes mutinying me as they dance across the plane of her back that is clothed with a beige and green striped blouse that reaches her mid-thigh. The curve of her buttocks presses against the grey stone of the counter. With eye-widening realization at what I was doing, my breath hitches and I spin on my heels to tediously tend to the drying of my (now pleasantly sterilized) hands. With elated thoughts, my whole view begins to change. Perhaps I can escape off the campus and make it home safely without any more confrontations. Then I could get back to my studies on non-Newtonian fluids and their reactions to different levels of dilution, all while lavishing in the wonderful smells of chicken pot pie that I already know Mother will be preparing in the comfy kitchen this eve-

The ecstatic prospects of the evening that are running through my mind are abruptly halted when I unconsciously spin on my heels and look up, only to find golden eyes that shine like prehistoric amber sap, except for the fact that, unlike the syrup that had hardened an interminably long time ago, the color seems to waver and splash, truly bringing to life the overused, almost cliché term usually associated with attractive eyes: "pools".

An old adage says that the eyes are the window to the soul. Well, hers, after only a second and a half, went from excitable portals into a warm universe to ultimate lockdown, becoming more reclusive than wild wolves in high noon. Even though her eyes now look harder and colder than stone she sat upon, they still show signs of intrigue and I can't help but wonder what she is thinking as she stares square into my gun-metal blue eyes. It hits me once again that I am, after all, somewhat an intruder into the meant-to-be private place. Somewhere within my frontal lobe, another note is taken: even at her post atop the counter, I still prove to be taller than her (she even goes as much to incline her head a few degrees) and the youth of her face captures me. With me being (by law) a fifth grader, but by academic standards a graduating high school scholar, it would be inept to say that there aren't many people that are also 10 years of age that attend this academic establishment. There weren't any. Or so I thought until now…No, I would have known if she was here. Despite always denying my mother's accusations of it, I've always had a competitive streak that is rather unsatisfiable and would have known if another child prodigy was present at my own school. My own primal, ill-equipped school…it's a wonder in itself that I've tolerated this place long enough to get my diploma. After this is all over with, I'm shipping off for the University of Texas at Austin as soon as possible.

It is then that I notice that she is wearing a student pass around her neck, the royal blue matching the one I have on now as well. Even though the blank backside is facing outward, blocking me from observing who she really is, it's officially confirmed: for some reason or another, I'm no longer the only 10 year old to attend Llab High.

In an instant, another flicker in her eye snaps me back to the current time and place.

No words are exchanged between us as she calculates my face for a second longer, then silently alights from the counter top. With her feet on the ground, my theory about her true height is confirmed; she is shorter than me but only by approximately five to four inches. She shoots a curt nod my direction a short nod and strides out the door. The large wooden door slowly sweeps shut behind her with a resounding thud and I can't help but note that with her presence gone, the lavatory seems to have experienced a decrease in temperature. It's impossible, I know, but the nagging feeling works on my nerves that are already dangerously short, chiseled down by the days' events. With an indignant huff, I take my own leave, not even taking cautionary steps to avoid another encounter with my antagonists. Casting a quick glance both up and down the long hallway, I find that she is also quick on her feet, even with her short stature.

A deep, uncharacteristic sigh escapes out of my mouth and I move to trudge down towards the exit, no longer able to concentrate on my previous plans because my mind is to wrapped up in this illusive girl that seems to have just appeared out of no where. It doesn't quite reveal how deeply she has put me into a stupor until, within the confines of own home, I finally realize that in my deep thinking, I've left my books all my books laying strewn across the girls' restroom floor.

A/N: Well, it seems like Shelly will have a lot on his plate tonight. Both figuratively and physically! I wish I could say the same, at least about the physical part…

One interesting trivia fact: "Llab High School" is a fiction establishment but when you turn it around it become Ball High School, which is the only high school within Galveston, Texas, where Sheldon Cooper was born and raised.

Anyway, that's enough jibber-jabber. I NEED to hear what you guys think. This story strike so much hope in my heart. YOU ALL JUST HAVE TO LEAVE A REVIEW! I'M NOT TOO PROUD TO BEG! *gets on knees and grovels*. Oh…and if that isn't enough to persuade you to hit that little button down there and leave some comments, let me just inform you that I know how many people read my story every day; the online traffic is viewable from my account…SO I KNOW YOU'RE OUT THERE! Have a great night, review, and stay shiny ya'll!

~CC333