Chapter 51 – Sheldon's Audit
The moment Ethan signed the agreement, Sheldon switched into Work Mode.
He seated himself on his designated spot on the couch, donning a translucent green Financial Review Cap, his expression solemn and unyielding.
Bills and receipts were spread across the table. He flipped through them methodically, punctuating each calculation with aggressive taps on an old-fashioned calculator that chimed with every press.
Ethan sat obediently to the side, like a patient waiting outside an operating room—mentally prepared to be interrogated at any moment.
Leonard, Howard, and Raj hovered nearby, watching with undisguised curiosity.
Just then, Penny pushed the door open, a takeout bag in hand.
"Hey guys, I brought fries—wow. What's going on here? Are we playing Tax Tycoon: Simulator Edition?"
Leonard explained, "Sheldon's helping Ethan file his taxes."
"Taxes?" Penny's eyes lit up. "Can I watch? I'd love to see how much Ethan makes—and figure out whether I chose the wrong career."
Without waiting for permission, she leaned over the back of the couch, peering as Sheldon checked each receipt line by line.
Ethan couldn't help asking, "So… Sheldon, this isn't actually that complicated, right?"
Sheldon stopped, slowly raised his head, and fixed Ethan with a stare.
"Ethan, that question is equivalent to asking a surgeon, 'Is removing an appendix basically the same as clipping your nails?'"
"An appendectomy can be simple—like removing a rotten pit from a fruit. Locate it, cut it out, stitch up, done."
"But once it's inflamed and ruptured—when the pit fuses to the pulp and everything's leaking—you must peel it away millimeter by millimeter, without damaging surrounding tissue."
He glanced down at Ethan's paperwork.
"And your tax situation—falls squarely into the category of exploded, moldy fruit pit."
Ethan protested, "That seems a little dramatic…"
Sheldon pulled out a receipt.
"This treatment fee—one dollar. Please explain. Did you heal half a cell?"
Ethan shrugged. "The patient had no money. I charged symbolically."
Sheldon frowned.
"Symbolically what? Symbolically working for free? Next time, accept candy instead. Then I can file it as 'food inventory' and reclassify the visit as 'charitable medical service.'"
The calculator chimed ominously.
Penny munched on her fries and said casually, "If you ever accept candy as payment, remember to share it with me."
Sheldon turned to her slowly.
"In that case, you would be subject to in-kind benefit taxation. And every bite you take would increase Ethan's reportable income and corresponding tax liability."
Penny froze mid-chew.
Sheldon set aside the tragic one-dollar receipt and pulled out the next one.
"This charge—$234.14. Treatment? Consultation? And what, exactly, is this mystical fourteen cents?"
Ethan thought hard. "Emergency stitches. After I finished, the patient didn't have time to wait for an invoice—he dumped all the cash in his wallet on the counter and ran."
Sheldon stared at him.
"Were you treating a fugitive?"
Ethan sighed. "He was in a hurry. What was I supposed to do, chase him?"
Sheldon nodded.
"Excellent. You healed his wound—and in return, he inflicted a tax wound on you."
He flipped another page, then stopped.
"This entry says: 'Fee—$0.' You treated this elderly woman for free?"
"She was genuinely poor," Ethan said. "I couldn't take her money."
Sheldon looked at him as if passing judgment.
"Unrecorded kindness, in the eyes of the IRS, is not called 'goodness.' It's called suspicious behavior."
Penny blinked. "Wait—doing good things is illegal now?"
Sheldon corrected her calmly.
"In the United States, doing good is permitted—provided it is properly declared.
If you help someone for free, you must inform the IRS that you are not laundering money, merely being a documented, verifiably poor-hearted saint."
"So how should I file it?" Ethan asked.
Sheldon picked up a pen and wrote three words in the ledger:
Charitable Medical Care
Then he added, "Congratulations. Your kindness is now tax-deductible. You didn't just save her—you officially saved yourself from the IRS."
He pointed to another entry.
"This $200—listed under 'intern expenses,' but not counted as wages."
Ethan remembered slipping Mary an envelope when she resigned. A small bonus, thanks for everything.
He explained.
Sheldon pressed on.
"Was this back pay—or a personal gift?"
"Does it matter? I was just saying thank you."
"Of course it matters," Sheldon said sharply.
"When we are separated into different rooms and questioned individually by the IRS, our answers must match."
Ethan's eyes widened. "Why would we be in separate rooms?!"
Sheldon raised a hand.
"Do not question the scenario. Focus. Do you want it classified as wages—or as a gift?"
Ethan hesitated. "Which one saves more on taxes?"
Sheldon hammered the calculator.
"Gifts are non-taxable but non-deductible. Wages are taxable, but count as operating expenses and reduce overall liability."
He looked up.
"Given your current financial state, wages are optimal. You need the deduction."
As the stack of receipts thinned, Sheldon's movements slowed.
Then—he stopped.
"There are two deposits of one hundred thousand dollars each, from two different patients. Explain."
His tone turned interrogative.
"What medical procedure commands such value? Did you secretly install artificial hearts? Or sell kidneys on the black market?"
The room went dead silent.
Penny froze, fry halfway to her mouth.
"Two hundred thousand… oh my God."
Ethan rubbed his forehead. Here it is—the boss fight.
He'd thought about this for weeks and never found a perfect excuse. Sheldon would dissect any lie to the molecular level.
So he went with the nuclear option.
"The first was terminal brain cancer. The second, late-stage lung cancer," Ethan said. "They're both doing fine now."
Silence so deep you could hear fries going soggy.
Howard blinked. "You mean… the kind where doctors recommend drafting a will?"
Ethan nodded.
Sheldon stopped typing. His voice slowed.
"You… cured two terminal cancers?"
"More or less."
"With surgery? Medication? A chainsaw?"
"No surgery. No drugs. We just sat down and talked."
He paused.
"And I transferred some… inexplicable energy."
Sheldon closed the laptop. His calm was terrifying.
"Ethan, if you intend to lie, at least choose a lie we can believe."
If I could invent something you'd believe, I wouldn't be telling the truth!
Ethan spread his hands.
"They came in with cancer diagnoses. I re-examined and treated them. They went back for follow-ups—the tumors were gone. The hospitals called it a misdiagnosis."
Penny stared at the receipts.
"So… you basically told them they weren't dying, and they paid you an extremely expensive 'thank you' fee?"
Weaponized imagination—deadly effective.
Ethan instantly decided Penny was far more lovable than Sheldon.
The others exchanged looks. Compared to curing cancer, Penny's version felt… reasonable.
Sheldon thought for a moment—then accepted it.
"This fee cannot be recorded as a 'gratitude payment.' That would raise money-laundering concerns."
He wrote carefully.
"The correct description is:
'High-Value Psychological Reassurance + Misdiagnosis Correction Fee.'"