A/N Well well well, it's been a long-ass time since I last updated, hasn't it? My sincerest apologies. But let's get down to business.

TW- Infant/toddler death

If there any trigger warnings I need to add for this chappie, let me know and I will happily add them! So, time to do the disclaimer. Sheldon, get your butt in here and do the disclaimer!

Sheldon: But I'm working on a theory!

Me: (growls) Now!

Sheldon: (sighs) Fine…*enters the room* rxcknrollrebel does not own the Big Bang Theory. He only owns his OC Sophie. You happy?

Me: (curtsies)Very! You can go back to your string theorying now.

Sheldon: Thank the lord that I deny all existence of! *storms out of the room*

Me: Well, you heard the man!

"Time can bring you down

Time can bend your knees

Time can break your heart

Have you begging

Please, begging, please

Beyond the door there's peace, I'm sure

And I know there'll be no more tears in heaven"-

Eric Clapton, "Tears In Heaven."

Chapter Thirteen

SOPHIE'S POV

As soon as I cross the apartment threshold, I collapse in a heap on the floor, lying on my side to face the TV.

"Soph?" Leonard's tentative voice sounds from somewhere in the apartment. "You home?"

"Yeah," I croak, sounding very much like a frog, and clear my throat. "Yeah, I'm home."

Leonard enters the living room. He frowns when he sees me. "I would ask how your day was," he remarks slowly, eyebrows furrowed, "but you're on the floor."

I half-laugh, half-sob. "Yes, yes I am."

Leonard lies down on the floor next to me. "Do you ever feel like a ceiling fan?"

I look up at the ceiling fan that's spinning in counter-clockwise motions above us. "What?"

"I mean, do you ever feel like you're going in infinite circles, with no end in sight?" Leonard elaborates, with his arm up in the air pointed in the direction of the ceiling fan.

"Sure," I murmur, folding my arms over my chest. "Don't we all?"

The ceiling fan continues its endless cycle of spinning in circles, obviously with no intention of stopping.

*TBBT TBBT TBBT*

The subsequent morning, after I crawl out of bed, I rummage the freezer and retrieve a carton of chocolate chip ice cream. What can I say? After the bullshit I've been dealing with lately, I deserve to freakin' treat myself.

I yank a spoon from the utensil drawer and begin shoveling scoops of ice cream in my mouth directly from the carton.

Leonard emerges from the dark hallway, raking his fingers through his sleep-tangled hair; yawning. He's still clad in his Spiderman pajamas.

Leonard emits another yawn, rubbing his eyes. When he sees me, he stops and stares.

"What?" I say defensively through a mouthful. The best offense is defense. That is the only useful information to be gleamed from organized sports.

"You're eating ice cream...at 7 in the morning," Leonard points out, his voice husky from sleep. "That's super unhealthy."

"I don't care if it's healthy or not," I whine, swallowing my mouthful of ice cream. "I'm miserable." I punctuate my sentence with a groan.

Leonard raises his eyebrows; drops them. "Fair enough. Can I join you?"

I shrug. "It's a free country." I pass him the carton, and we eat out of it together, chewing in unison.

I begin to laugh, something I haven't done in awhile.

"What?" Leonard swallows his own mouthful.

"We're literally bonding," I say between giggles, "over ice cream."

He breaks into a grin from ear to ear, and laughs along with me.

After we polish off a whole carton of ice cream in one sitting, (a world record) he sits on the couch flipping through a sci-fi magazine, and I sit at the computer, scrolling through my Facebook feed, when I suddenly come across an old article about Eric Clapton (the lead singer from the classic rock band Cream) that one of my old high school classmates posted.

I scroll through it, soon enough realizing that it's a rare interview with Rolling Stone about Eric Clapton's late son, Conor, who fell from an open window on the 53rd floor of a Manhattan apartment building that Clapton and his wife shared at the time. He was four and a half years old. I make the mistake of reading till the very end of the article. According to Clapton, he and his wife had attempted many times to have children, but their efforts were proven futile when they only resulted in miscarriages.

I immediately burst into tears, my head in my hands.

Leonard immediately rushes to my side. "What's wrong?"

I gesture to the article. "Eric Clapton's son-" my breath emerges in smothered gasps- "his son died from falling from their apartment window." I try to take a deep breath, but only crumple into sobs again. "He was only four years old!" I wail, gasping for air.

Leonard massages my shoulders. "Poor thing," he murmurs, and I can't tell whether he's referring to me or Eric Clapton's son. I don't even bother to ask.

After about five minutes of a mental breakdown, Leonard dries my tears and passes a tissue to me. I accept it gratefully and blow my nose. "You know," I manage to squeak out finally, my voice as Owen Wilson's, "after the death of his child, Eric Clapton went completely off the grid and took refuge in Antigua for a year. Should we do the same thing?"

"Go off the grid, or vacation in Antigua?" Leonard inquires, pushing his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

"Not necessarily in Antigua," I muse, logging out of Facebook and powering down the laptop, "maybe in the Bahamas, or Hawaii."

"That would be nice," Leonard ponders. "But can afford it?"

"I have no idea," I admit with a shrug. "Although, 'if you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything'."

"Who said that?" Leonard sits down in what was once Sheldon's Spot on the sofa. "Shakespeare?"

"Nope...Doc Brown." I grin at him. "Back to the Future. 1985."

Leonard actually laughs. "Classic, and one of my favorites."

"I haven't showered or brushed my teeth today," I announced to no one in particular. "But you know what? Fuck it. Let's make popcorn and watch Back to the Future together."

Leonard grins. "It's a date."

I dig around in the DVD cabinet until I locate Back to the Future, then turn on the TV and pop it into the DVD player. I crawl onto Leonard's lap, and he wraps his arms around me, his chin resting on the top of my head, as the Universal Pictures song plays from the TV. Our legs tangle together.

I'm surprised at his voluntary response to physical affection.

It feels like forever since we've actually gotten physical with each other.

But I think I can get used to it.