All proceeding chapters of this story were written before the Season 12 premiere episode aired. They were meant to be the story in its entirety. But my sweet beta suggested (i.e. repeatedly begged, cajoled, lobbied, cried, etc.) for me to write this addendum after 12.1 aired because of how well my original story dovetailed into the events and statements in that episode. As so, here you have it: yet another ending, just like Lord of the Rings. An addendum, as Sheldon would say.

THE SEXUALITY QUANDARY

ADDENDUM

"You realize I'm not a particularly physical person. But I want to be a good husband to you and intimacy is a part of that."

Stray strands of her hair covered Amy's face as she rolled in her sleep, and Sheldon brushed them softly away. The tips were damp from their post-coital shower; even though she twisted all her hair up, some always escaped. It was just one of the little details that, once discovered, delighted him.

Tomorrow morning, Sheldon would log this evening's physical activities in the algorithm app he had on his phone, hidden in the folder he'd renamed Duncel along with other needless things like the calculator and the health app so that Amy wouldn't accidentally stumble across it, thus maintaining the illusion of spontaneity.

The algorithm, like their relationship, was a living, breathing thing. After realizing that perhaps he'd put too much pressure and emphasis on coitus during their honeymoon, Sheldon initially considered a quarterly schedule before deciding that was unfair to Amy. Currently the algorithm was set to generate a so-called-random event about once a month; technically, once every twenty to forty days. Certain dates were loaded as constants, Amy's birthday and their wedding date among them. Amy knew about these dates, because, as she'd shared when they discussed it further, there were times she enjoyed Pon farr, too. Just not every time. And not down to the hour. Some dates were excluded; he'd factored in her menstrual cycle. And some dates hadn't panned out, such as when Amy had that cold ten days ago and only wanted some Vicks rubbed on her chest before she went to bed early. Not that he wanted to make love then, either; experience had taught him that nothing killed the mood like a virus. Only when a scheduled date had passed did Sheldon document it, and the algorithm adjusted future events accordingly. That's no doubt why this one had come up again so soon after the aforementioned postponement.

It wasn't just the dates; he had loaded in some common positions and foreplay for pseudo-randomization, also, although Sheldon certainly would allow Amy to upend any curious suggestion he made. But he discovered that having something specific to look forward to, remembered or imagined, helped to start his Pon farr cycle. As it always had been, it was Amy's obvious fulfillment from physical intimacy that was his greatest aphrodisiac. Especially pleased by his own cleverness, he'd chosen the fight music from Amok Time as the alarm tone to go off thirty-six hours before a scheduled event. Although now he was getting a little worried it was becoming Pavlovian, because yesterday it sounded while he was at his desk and an image of mid-orgasm Amy immediately flashed across his mind. How was it possible that he didn't think once about coitus for a full eight days and then suddenly he had an erection from simply visualizing it? At least no one came to his office after that. How would he have explained it - any of it - if someone else had been present?

As with so many scientific endeavors, the equation had freed him. Approximately thirty-eight hours a month in which he would consider or actually be making love with Amy, and the rest of the month he was free to not think about it at all. After a few months, he'd inquired if the schedule was adequate to her needs, and she reassured him that there was no need to look over his shoulder for a longshoreman. He even gave up his monthly masturbatory ritual; it had always been more of a chore than anything else, and, now that he'd found somewhere much better than the shower to ejaculate once a month, he didn't think he needed it.

It was like those years before he met Amy, when coitus rarely crossed his mind. Oh, there were still times that her sassy lips taunted him with the intelligence or the stubbornness of her brain, and he felt forced to quiet the passion with a deep kiss. Sometimes, then, coitus would spring into his head. But it was her lips and her brain, those two organs that were now incontrovertibly linked, that he really wanted. The difference was that these episodes didn't confuse him or concern him anymore; he was free of the deeper worries that these make out sessions only frustrated his wife. The years of angst and sleepless nights and fear that Amy would leave him - or had left him - over his sexuality were gone. For anywhere between eighteen and half and thirty-eight and half days, Amy's brilliant suggestion of a secret schedule had been a gift of peace, a gift of time to enjoy just being together to admire the qualities they so loved in each other, to recognize the other's intelligence and appreciate the other's ability to see the universe in a unique but complimentary way. Days filled with romance and intimacy and sensuality of various sorts, but none of them sexual.

And then, periodically, they gave each other those same things, but wrapped in the gift of sexual love. Their joinings were more relaxed now that they were more frequent. Not that there wasn't passion or fervor anymore, but, on the second month, the algorithm had suggested a weekend morning session. That rendezvous had been especially unhurried and warm; they took their time to explore each other as though it was new, to stop occasionally and talk, and they'd cuddled for longer before their shower. By mutual assent, Sheldon had found a way to fold this new pattern into their evening assignations, as well: they would retire early and take the time to enjoy all the forms of intimacy they shared: touching, whispering, gently debating, and even occasionally giggling. Making love to his wife, he realized, was the entire process.

Amy's hand twitched on the pillow, and Sheldon thought perhaps she'd fallen into a dream. Usually he fell fast asleep, too, after they returned clean and flannel-bound to their bed; but tonight, he was enjoying watching his sexually satisfied wife sleep.

For some reason, no doubt hormone induced, he thought about that conversation of his friends he'd overheard in the hallway years ago, before he met Amy. He remembered how he'd frowned slightly at the thought of coitus, shook his head at the needless waste of time, and returned to his task without any doubts about his asexuality. He didn't understand the need for coitus and he mistakenly believed it would be self-explanatory. But now he knew it was among the grand mysteries of the universe. Not just the numerous variations to the act itself or the complex equation behind his algorithm, but the way he felt about it.

Although he felt the words he'd decided on define his current sexuality remained accurate and even though he'd discovered the correct adjective to describe the power of making love with Amy, those factors didn't mean that Sheldon understood everything about it. In fact, he was now willing to admit that things might change again in the future, that his sexuality could be fluid in the most viscid sense, and that, in time and incremental steps, he might be willing to move further along the bell curve. Amy had shown him, with her love and patience, that coitus, like string theory and dark matter, was a mystery. A beautiful, glorious mystery for them to slowly unravel together. She held his hand secure as they explored their own personal super asymmetry.

They had unlocked a mystery tonight with his algorithm's suggestion. Sheldon felt like a longshoreman himself saying it, and so he'd only whispered it, pointing out it was an experiment so that Amy wouldn't feel embarrassed, either. Instead, she seemed pleased that he'd offered something new, and the way she barely heaved out "Oh, Sheldon, yes, right there - Shel-dddoonnn!" just before she shuttered through an especially guttural orgasm . . . Yep, he was definitely going to have to change that alarm tone.

Inspired by the memory of her vocalizations, unable to wait, Sheldon rolled and reached for his phone in the dark, squinting as the display came on too bright. A few swipes later, he smiled. And then he paused, gazing at his beautiful wife out of the corner of his eyes. Even though they weren't touching, he felt her hand in his, and he imagined it squeezing his tighter as something osculated ever-so-slightly beneath him. Something almost imperceptible changed, and he nodded as he tapped out the change on the screen. Then he put the phone back and wrapped himself around Amy, falling asleep quickly and deeply into the kind of deep oblivion that can only come with freedom and peace. He was done thinking about coitus for now.

But while he slept, the algorithm recalculated using his new input parameters. Once every nineteen to thirty-nine days.

THE END

Thank you, dear readers, for all your sweet reviews and comments on this story. I'm sorry I couldn't answer all the guest reviews personally, but they were read and appreciated. Your outpouring of support for this story in particular was a wonderful bolster.

I wasn't sure how people would react when I decided to write this, because I wanted to write something serious about what I feared may be an unpopular viewpoint. Although I enjoy writing the Shamy relationship differently, in truth I really do feel Sheldon is like this: a very mild graysexaul and a demisexual one at that. I think it's clear he enjoys making love with Amy when he gets around to it, but I still believe it's only because Amy is there and because he sees how much she enjoys it first. As he said in 12.1, he just doesn't think about it very often.

Until we meet here again, you can follow me on Instagram, handle: aprilinparisfanfic.