On boring, rainy days there's nothing better to do than click around my old writing. And what do I find? This old fic. Well, not too old. But at least a good few months.

Anyway, I was going to delete it, but decided I'd just go ahead and post it. Why not? So, hopefully you guys will enjoy it. I'm not planning on writing more, but if anyone likes it, I might throw some sort of part 2 together. No promises, though.

Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who, or the characters. :(

Enjoy :)

Thinking of you is easy - I do it every day. Missing you is the heartache that never goes away.

-Michael Pryce

Through Our Letters

"Goodnight, Ponds," the Doctor called over his shoulder, pretending to be completely occupied with the book he was holding in his hands. The redhead and her husband cast a look at the upside-down book, amused, but said nothing as they vanished down the hallway that led to their room.

The moment they were gone, the Doctor threw the book carelessly over his shoulder, barely hearing the thump and rustle of crinkled pages as it hit the grated floor of the large console room.

"Hello, there," he muttered, pulling a blank sheet of paper from his trans-dimensional pockets. The paper didn't respond, but that was okay. The man hadn't expected it to... yet. Pulling a pen from his other pocket, he wrote

Hello, there, on the page, watching as the ink bled together in inky puddles and rearranged itself into different words, new words. The Doctor grinned.

Hey, yourself :)

This ritual- writing on the oddly responsive paper in the darkness of night- was one that had become common in the last few months, ever since he'd discovered the page in an abandoned 74th Century spacecraft in a distant galaxy.

At first, of course, he'd been wary. He'd seen something similar to this before- it was like texting, or calling someone off a cell phone. Someone, somewhere, had an identical piece of paper and was writing back. It could be anyone, friend or foe, so the Doctor had known (ok, so Amy had scolded him) to beware the odd mystery person (stranger-danger and all that).

He'd meant to dispose of the stupid page, too. But… well… he'd gotten curious, and… well.

Emoticons. At least 20th Century, then, he wrote, smirking slightly. The page's twin could be anywhere across time and space, so the Doctor had made it a sort of game to try and guess the mystery person's time and identity- an identity the other was strangely reluctant to share.

A range of profanities flirted across the page, confirming the Doctor's guess. His smirk grew and he adjusted his bow tie smugly. Oh, he was good, he really was.

You're making this too easy, he wrote. The response came back only seconds later.

Oh, really? You know my time. But I'll bet you still don't know my name.

The Doctor rolled his eyes and wrote, Rumpelstiltskin?

Haha, very funny, came the sarcastic response. Tonight it's my turn to guess about you, though, remember?

How could I forget? The man in the bow tie smiled as he wrote the words. This person was easy to talk to, and he rather enjoyed their little conversations. If only he knew who it was!

Let's see… you're male and adult, I know that. You're at least in the 19th Century, but judging by the way you talk, I'm guessing at least 20th or 21st Century. And… single?

What makes you think I'm single? The Doctor replied, somewhat indignantly.

You've never mentioned a girlfriend or a wife.

Oh. Yeah, the Doctor wrote back after a minute. He was struck (not for the first time) at how familiar the person seemed. Something about the way they had to write things out to think them through, the easy banter…

Have we met? He asked (not for the first time). Mystery Person's response was the same as it had been last time, and the time before that.

How should I know if I don't know your name?

Tell me a bit about yourself, then. This is driving me crazy. There was a long pause after he'd written the words, and he knew why. It was the first time either of them had asked for information point-blank like that- normally they gleaned what info they could through their maddening guessing game.

I tell you something, you tell me something. Deal?

Deal, the Doctor wrote back easily. He had 900 years of memories- it should be easy enough for him to offer random information that wouldn't give him away (assuming he had met the person).

Ok, here goes nothing. I'm twenty-two.

Twenty-two? The Doctor wrote back, slightly surprised. He'd been envisioning someone older, for some reason.

Oi! Added Mystery Person, as if reading the Doctor's thoughts. Your turn.

I like bow ties.

Bow ties?

Yes, bow ties, The Doctor wrote firmly. Bow ties are cool, Mystery Person.

Mystery Person? There was no way to convey laughter through writing, but somehow the Doctor just knew the other person was currently doing just that.

What, would you prefer Mystery Man?

Mystery Woman, if you must know. Once again, the Doctor got the odd impression of amusement.

Ah, female and twenty-two. Now we're getting somewhere! The man wrote, jumping up and pacing, the paper held in one hand, the pen in the other. Twenty-two… and single?

I am now.

The simple response made the Doctor stop his pacing. Inwardly he cursed his callused assumption. At twenty-two, he'd assumed Mystery Woman wasn't old enough to have "tied the knot" or experienced much real heartbreak. Apparently he was wrong.

I'm sorry, he wrote, knowing the words were inadequate. Unsummoned, a memory of blonde hair and brown eyes crept up into the corners of his mind, and he pushed the thoughts away quickly. He was over her, he was, and he was okay (except he wasn't).

It's okay. We weren't really "together-together", just best mates.

What happened?

He left. A moment later, more words appeared, as if Mystery Woman had just realized how that sounded. He didn't want to, or anything. We were split up.

Can't you just go find him?

No, came the reply, and the impression of amusement the Doctor had gotten earlier was now replaced with the impression of pain and heartbreak. He's… gone. For good. He can't come back, and I can't go to him. Enough about me, though. You're single?

Well… here the Doctor trailed off. Mystery Woman's story had brought back memories of a blonde companion, trapped in Norway a universe away, kept away from him, forever… and this time, the memories wouldn't be quiet. Suddenly the Doctor had an overwhelming desire to tell someone, anyone, like a drowned man needed air.

There was this girl, once, he admitted finally. My story's a bit like yours, actually. We were split up, permanently. Circumstances got rough- rough like you wouldn't believe- and I lost her. A choked sound came from the bow tie-clad man, but no tears followed. He'd run out of tears a long time ago. And now he'd gotten the truth out, but it hadn't helped. Nothing would help.

He felt numb, hollow, like an empty jar that had been shattered beyond repair and if you stepped in the wrong place, you'd find yourself hurt. This body felt pain differently than his last body had- or maybe the wound was just too fresh still.

You'd be surprised how much I'd believe the woman wrote back. He had no idea if she was joking or not, but decided to take it that way to lighten the suddenly dark, painful mood.

Oh, really? Angels made of stone?

Try werewolves and cyberman, came the response. Something about the words made the Doctor freeze… why did he feel like he should know the person based on that simple sentence? There was something, some memory, just out of reach…. If he could only remember! He should ask, he knew he should. Man up and just blurt it out.

The ood, he wrote instead.

The ood? Really? Came the response, accompanied by the odd allusion of surprise. I met some ood once. I thought they were all killed.

Nope, definitely alive, his mind flashed back to the memory of another companion- Donna. I've run into them a few times.

Oh, the surprised feeling that emitted from the paper was replaced by a feeling of what the Doctor could swear was relief. Good. The ones we met didn't deserve to die.

Once again, the Doctor was struck by how familiar the words sounded.

We? He questioned, looking over the writing.

Me and my friend.

The one you were separated from? There was a pause, during which the Doctor cursed his nosy nature fluently in half a dozen languages and smacked the console board in frustration (resulting in a red, sore hand and a low hum of reproach from the ship herself).

"Sorry, sexy," he muttered aloud, only half paying attention to his ship's reprimand as he studied the vanilla sheet in his hands.

Yeah, him, came the response finally. You're very curious, Mr…

That's not going to work, the Doctor snorted at the somewhat pathetic attempt to find out his name.

Then make something up! I can't keep calling you Mystery Man. The response had a sense of finality to it, so the Doctor sighed and scrawled down his usual alias.

John Smith. You?

John Smith? Repeated Mystery Woman. The loopy writing was somewhat messy, like her hand had been unsteady while she wrote out the name. My friend used to go by that name.

It's a common name, the Doctor dismissed, sitting back down and putting his feet up on the console. C'mon then, give me your fake name.

There was a long, long pause, like the other was contemplating something. The Doctor was just about to ask again when the response came into view, the ink slowly forming a name the Doctor had never expected to see again. He read it once, twice, and then three times before the paper fell from his hands, drifting to a rest on the grated floor next to the discarded book.

From the fallen paper, one name stared back at him, as if daring him to hope, to wish for the impossible:

Bad Wolf.

Aaaannnnndddd that's all I have. :) Hate it? Love it? Want a part 2? Think that's a good ending there? Drop me a review on your way out and tell me what you think! Until next time! :)