Thank you for the cute reviews!

Chapter 11

The Impossible Girl was in his dreams and in his imagination their dance continued. She laughed until her dimples showed and John watched her blush as their hips touched. She was gorgeous in his dream, and funny, and not at all like Clara Oswald usually was towards him. John enjoyed the dance a little too much, he enjoyed holding her by the waist, enjoyed the heat radiating from her body, the lovely scent from her perfume. Now, in his sleep, he was brave enough to lower his lips to her neck, careful, waiting her reaction. That tiny sound of her gasp sent a thrill through his body.

Needless to say, John woke up hard and aching and he groaned in frustration when reality struck him like a hammer over the head. Clara had fled the party last night and she hadn't come back. It was utterly hopeless. John climbed out of bed and made his way towards the shower, determined to clear his head once and for all off Clara Oswald. As he wrapped his hand around himself, John thought of her delicate neck and her lips, that hint of cleavage under her red dress and how good she had felt, pressed against his body. It could have been wonderful, it could have been him and his lovely Impossible Girl in the bedsheets this morning, her laugh when he teased her, her moans when brought her pleasure. He would have fallen madly in love with this gorgeous woman at some point.

John flicked the switch on the coffee maker and stuck two slices of bread into the toaster, waiting for his breakfast to finish while he booted his laptop. He would spend his day writing, like he usually did. Maybe he would add some sort of bittersweet short story for his new book because he certainly felt in the mood for that right now. Yes, he should write something like that.

As he sipped his coffee and opened his e-mails, John thought for a moment that he was still stuck in his dream because he spotted one message he wouldn't have expected to see in a million years.


Clara had been staring at the empty box with the blinking cursor for what felt like an eternity. She had hoped that those strange feelings for John Smith/The Doctor would go away over night, but they certainly had not. After she had left the party last night, Clara had tried to go straight to bed, only to find that sleep was impossible, at least as long as John was ghosting through her head and his touch still somehow resonated on her skin. She blamed it on having been single for so long because there was no other explanation for why she should be having these kind of feelings for someone as rude as John. But that wasn't entirely the truth, was it? She had liked the Doctor and as much as she hated to admit that, the Doctor was a part of John Smith.

Clara growled and decided to send him a message.

Hello Doctor,

or should I call you John Smith now? It's strange knowing who you are, so I'm not quite sure how to address you anymore.

Anyway, I wanted to apologize for just running off last night and I realize that I haven't even answered your question. Your short story was perfect, as always, and it will go straight into the book.

Clara

That was all she could write for now because if she went on, she might admit things she would later regret. So Clara sat back and waited for a reply. One that never came.

Clara decided to busy herself with her household chores to keep her mind off John. She did her laundry, ironed her clothes, washed the dishes and even threw in an hour of pure play time with Sammy, but as the evening drew closer, she was about to give up on that hope of ever receiving a reply to her e-mail. John Smith wasn't interested and even if he had been last night, she had successfully ruined that by storming out of the room. When she still hadn't heard from him at 7, Clara decided to have a shower and spend the rest of the evening on her sofa with Sammy, a glass of wine and her favourite TV show.

However, hopefulness made her check her phone one last time before she settled in the sofa cushions and to her surprise – and delight – she found one new e-mail, including an attachment.

Good evening, Clara,

you may call me whatever you like, except maybe asshole – that wouldn't be so very nice. I must admit, I was a little surprised when you just stormed out because I had thought you were enjoying the fact that I wasn't stepping on your toes.

The reason I'm replying so late is that I've been busy with a new short story today, which I've just finished. I hope you'll enjoy it.

John

Clara couldn't help but smile at the e-mail and decided to leave out the TV show for tonight and instead read his latest story. If it was as good as the last ones, she would be a lot better entertained.

It didn't take her long to get utterly lost in his writing, even though this short story was kind of sad and maybe a little bittersweet, not that she minded that at this point. The two protagonists were undeniably crazy about each other, but couldn't stay together. Yet that didn't keep them from having one last night of passion, meeting up in the back room of a fancy ballroom where the man lifted up her gown and started to caress her thigh. For some reason Clara imagined John doing that to her, pressing her against the wall like that, his breath coming out ragged right next to her ear, his husky voice. John had a wonderful, erotic voice. Not that she would ever tell him that.

Clara shifted in her seat, trying to focus more on the story and less on her own arousal as she read on, but damn, she couldn't keep herself from wondering. Would it be like that with John? Would his hands do what they did in the story? Would he breathe those words into her ear?

The protagonist kissed his woman and Clara suddenly longed for that sensation, longed for that feeling of a man pressed up against her, for John.

"You drive me insane," the man whispered against the woman's lips, "You're impossible. You're my Impossible Girl."

Clara swallowed as she read the words that sent a thrill straight through her entire body and she knew. . . she instantly understood. And right now she didn't care about anything else. She opened her e-mail app and started typing.

John,

what's your address?

And do you like wine?

Clara