Aw, I'm so sorry guys. It's been WAY too long since the last update and this probably should have been up much earlier. I guess I've been sick…with a severe case of laziness and procrastination! I'm a bit put off…only one person reviewed on chappie two. Before we get started, though, let's get some review responses (well, review response) up, yeah? ;)

Jislane: THANK YOU! I just want to set it straight that the first half of Chappie Two isn't from Shelly's P.O.V (it's my OC's) but I do agree, there is some things wrong with both their households.

Note: As mentioned above, the first half of the previous chappie (before the line break) is narrated by someone whom you all will be meeting…dangerously soon.

I finally found a name for her, as seen below. It was a very close time between that and Astra.

Disclaimer: I do NOT own BBT…but I wish I owned Jim Parsons…jk :3

The Lovely Hypothesis

By: CC333

Chapter Three

*Sophia's Point of View*

"WOULD YOU JUST CALM DOWN LONG ENOUGH SO I CAN HEAR MYSELF THINK?"

God, she's infuriating. At least what's happening now isn't nearly as bad as the time when I accidentally set her hair on fire. What? It wasn't like it was on purpose or anything. I always keep an emergency fire extinguisher in my laboratory anyway. Plus, I had been in the fifth grade and experimenting chemical reaction when losing or gaining a set of electr-

"AHH!"

Oh great. Now she's screaming and leaping. That's only going to scare Rufus even more.

My point is that just because I love completing research and acting upon my findings doesn't mean that I'm "special".

"WHAT THE HELL IS THIS THING! GET IT OFF ME! YOU'RE FREAKING CRAZY!"

Okay, so I have heard that one before. Many a time before, really. In a way, it kind of fits. My whole life's been crazy. Insane. Ridiculous.

Oh my gosh, is Lyric really crying?

Low and behold, my older step-sister is propped on her elbows while the rest of her body is sprawled out across the floor. Big fat tears roll down her face as her screams dwindle down to whimpers thanks to my pet octopus Rufus, who continues to make the sweet innocent gurgling sounds from his position strapped tightly to Lyric's chest.

"Well, I'm glad you found it in you to calm down", I say while standing over he and trying to convey a stern emotion. I'm not the best at appearing domineering. My short stature isn't threatening. I've never really been petite and definitely not right now. I'm 15 but feel like I have plenty tummy flab and thick thighs. What? It's not my fault I can't do 10 sit-ups in a row if my life counted on it…well, from a logical point of view, yes, it's my fault.

"Just. Get. It. Off. Me"

Rufus is a completely misunderstood cephalopod. Just because he suffers from a mild case of mammaphilia, doesn't mean he's a bad guy. His attraction to female breasts doesn't really spark my interest. Octopi are, after all, known to abnormal fetishes and Rufus is no different. He's completely harmless, especially to a 'not-so-gifted' girl such as myself. There indeed was a time where I did choose to sate my boredom one Saturday afternoon by printing off a picture of some super model's own pair as they were displayed through the strands of cloth the magazine article below it dared called a dress. My boy crawled on the tips of his tentacles right to the side of tank when I held up the photo and held onto the glass for dear life.

I'm not particularly worried about Lyric. It just so happens that when he spots a pair, he'll just latch right on.

Boy, was it uncomfortable when I had a good, long talk with Rachel, my step-mother, after she found a wet boob shot just lying on my bedroom table. I had spent a good two hours trying to convince her that I was completely heterosexual and that I definitely did not need to come of the metaphorical "closet" to her. But that was then, and now Rufus is latched onto my step-sister's chest. Well, at least his sexuality isn't in question.

If anything, this whole fiasco was set in motion by my stepsister, not my pet. This is the second infraction on which I have discovered Lyric's presence in my research lab. What I want to know is how she manages to bypass the two locks that are installed on the door. For someone that doesn't exactly convey themselves as intelligent, my step-sister has techniques that out-master mine when it comes to completing tasks that aren't, well, lawful. Perhaps these skills of hers are both a pro and con. After all, they have gotten her into the current mess, complete with a groping, purring octopus.

"Alright, just stay still. And try and relax, you've probably terrified him with all your incessant screaming," I respond while stepping over to bend over and gently try and coax the octopus from Lyric's torso. However, he isn't budging. I pull harder, trying not to squeeze him enough to hurt. It's understandable that he may be in shock, but if he doesn't let go, he'll suffocate due to being out of the water longer than he can handle.

After realizing that my (rather expensive) octopus will die if I don't do something soon, I yank harder. All this does is elicit a tighter grip on Rufus's part and more screaming from Lyric's. To preserve Rufus, I'll have to execute sort of Plan B. My hands reach down and grab the older girl by the forearms and I grunt as I strain to pull her to her feet. Then, taking her hand, I lead out the still-open vault door of my lab and quickly up the basement stairs, silently recognizing the feel of cold concrete under my bare feet, the feeling very much unlike the warm electro-heated tiles of my laboratory.
Once we reach the top of the steps, through the kitchen we hustle and into the close-by bathroom, Rufus gurgling the all the way.

"Quick! Lean over the sink while I fill it up."

She stares at me with an incredulous look in her eyes. "What!" she then manages to spit out.

"Just do it already!"

Surprisingly, that's all takes for her to comply. I, too, rush forward and begin turn the knobs that control the flow and temperature of the sink water, quickly calculating the correct condition for a maturing octopus like Rufus.

"I feel ridiculous", are the words that meet my ears as I work quickly. My head turns to see that, indeed, she looks like an absolute oaf, leaning chest first into a bathroom sink. Oh well, she is one so it's only fitting.

"You should also be feeling the release of my pet's grip."

There's a short silence before she answers, "Yeah, I think he's letting go."

I grunt softly in reply. Talking in excess was never really a part of nature. My etiquette with words was less than exceptional but it's not on my current self-improvement list, so it's not a priority. Not that there are a lot of people I feel comfortable talking to anyway.

It's not long before Lyric is back to standing erect and octopus-less. The front of her seemingly new shirt is soaked, but at least my plan to calm Rufus down by getting back into the water is successful. He's is the sink now, his form taking up most of the space as he sits barely submerged below the surface. I can swear up and down that he's grinning his little octopus grin at us both right now, happy to cause some form of up-stir.

My older "sister" looks from the sink to me. Five times over. Then she finally speaks, her voice bit gravelly, probably from all the blood-curling screams that ripped through her throat earlier.

"Why can't you just be normal?"

This is most definitely not the first time I heard those words from before as well but it's the way Lyric delivers them, accompanied with a deathly glare and all, that hits hard. So hard in fact that I find myself taking a step back from her.

"I was just trying to help". My voice sounds pitiful now, like some sorry little insect. So much for being domineering.

"My life can never be peaceful with you around!" she continues, shoving past my own comment. "It's like this never ending typhoon that I've dealt with for four years! I'm so glad I'm finally moving into my new apartment; it gives me a chance to get away from you."

This time around, I stand my ground. Lyric stumps out the bathroom like a little brat, not like that's new. Anger is bubbling inside of me and, knowing me, my control over it won't last long. It's alright though, because it's already apparent that she is preparing herself to leave anyway, her (oversized) hot pink purse and (agonizingly annoying) little Shih Tzu tucked beneath her arms and walks past the bathroom door. Five seconds later I hear the door slam and the whole foyer rumble with the unsettling movement.

The house remains quiet after that. Rachel is out running errands like usual. She's been abnormally busy these last few days and I'm beginning to wonder what is going on. Maybe it has something to do with Lyric and her plans to leave the household to live on her university's campus.

It's alright; I conduct my work best in silence.

Before I can move out of the bathroom and back downstairs to by laboratory, the door bell of our house chimes happily. Usually I'm very uneasy about people approaching the steps to our door. After all, you never know who can be on the side: a mass murder, a pesky salesman, a girl scout trying pawn money from your wallet in exchange for a fattening dessert.

However, with the recent berating I've just endured, I throw my caution to proverbial wind.

I wish I hadn't, though. After yanking open the white door and seeing who was standing there, I realize that it worse than all three of those things.

My body won't move. I can't move. I'm dead.