'Twas the Day before Christmas Eve, and all though the house, the sounds of panicked last-minute shopping echoed. The stockings were theoretically hung by the chimney with care, but since they didn't actually have one they were really hung haphazardly from the stair railings.
After approximately two hours of last minute wrapping insanity where Amy panicked and Rory attempted to help (badly), he called time out.
They had been sitting in the middle of their second cup of soothing herbal tea when the TARDIS announced itself in the living room. That is to say, it made two loud sort of clunking, coughing noises, and proceeded to emit a rather sooty Doctor in a cloud of smoke.
The first words out of his mouth were, "Don't worry! I just need to replace the Ventral Extrapolator and it'll be fine! He paused, gazing at them contemplatively. "You wouldn't happen to have a goldfish, would you?"
Amy's eyebrows shot up. "No, we do not have a goldfish,"
"Oh," the Doctor said rather sadly, before darting between the pair into the kitchen. Standing there, they could hear the sound of things being flung from a cabinet onto the floor. They winced as something particularly breakable hit the floor with a crash.
Rory looked at his wife. "Should we... help him?"
Amy looked back just as another large pot flew into the opposite wall. They nodded in sync. Moving into the kitchen, they took positions on either side of where he was rummaging under their sink, muttering to himself. He somehow had acquired a colander for a hat and had several large serving spoons sticking out of his pockets.
Leaning against the counter, Amy looked down. "Doctor, what are you looking for?"
He tried to extract his head from the cupboard, but only succeeded in whacking his head quite nicely on the frame. With a quietly indignant, "Ow!" he tried again, slower.
He looked up at Amy, then over to Rory, seemly taking in their appearances for the first time. "What on Gallifrey are you two wearing?"
Amy looked down at their matching Christmas sweaters, chosen specifically for their horrendously ugly pattern. "It's tradition!" Rory protested.
The Doctor quickly stood up, immediately moving into Rory's face as if to inspect it, eyebrows crinkled. He moved over to Amy next. She gave him a look and pulled away slightly.
Suddenly, the Doctor pulled away, spinning around to look at the room properly. Tree, nearly knocked over in the living room. December calendar. Decorative snowmen on the shelf... He broke into a huge grin. "It's Christmas!"
He spun again, sending the colander spinning in circles around his head.
He leaped back over to the ponds, slinging his arms around their necks and kissing each of their foreheads with gusto. Swinging them around so they were standing shoulder to shoulder in front of him, he gave a huge, purely delighted grin. "Oh, this is going to be brilliant!" he crowed.
A sudden explosion from the TARDIS made them all jump. The Doctor ran across the room, leaping over the couch and diving into the cloud of smoke with a cry of "Don't worry!"
Several loud crashing noises and a fit of coughing filled the air. Then it stopped, and the TARDIS gave a sighing clunk. The Doctor re-emerged, grinning. "There, all better!"
He dashed out of the living room and darted around the Ponds, making them twirl yet again. Taking a seat at the recently occupied kitchen table, he took a sip of Amy's half-full mug of tea, and grabbed a notepad lying there. Then, taking out his glasses with a flourish, he began to write, tongue peeking out from between his lips as he concentrated.
Amy slid onto the chair next to him, Rory sitting down across the table. They both craned their necks, trying to see what on earth he was writing.
Finally, he finished with a flourish. "There!"
He made a move to get up and flee to the living room yet again, but Amy grabbed the list and made a quick getaway to the other side of the counter. When she was finished reading, she turned to the Doctor, her brow furrowed in confusion. "Doctor, is this a list of… people?"
The Doctor made a motion to grab for the list, letting out a little noise of frustration when Amy held it just out of his grasp. He let his hands drop in a pleading motion.
"Amy…" he began, but she raised her eyebrows and tilted her head in a you-explain-what-is-going-on-this-instant sort of movement. "Alright, yes. It's a list of people." The manic look was back in his eye. "We're going to have a party!"
It was late. Snow swirled through the frigid London air, dusting the hair of the last-minute shoppers and party-goers with flurries. There was the sort of festive air that had everyone laughing, and only seemed to show up on Christmas.
The hour grew later and later, and the snow grew heavier and heavier. The streets began to empty, slowly. It was the sort of Christmas that you put on a holiday card and send to all the in-laws who didn't get snow, just to spite them.
Two figures, one tall and lean, one shorter and sturdy, came striding out of the swirling flurries and past the row of shops and townhouses.
"This is idiotic," muttered Sherlock.
John sighed. "Well, if you didn't want to come, then you should've just told her! I'm sure Amy would have understood."
"And we've already had Christmas with Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and Molly before they left for holiday! Repetition is useless."
John stopped, turning towards his companion. "Sherlock, you've been complaining the whole way here! If you want to leave, then go!"
Sherlock sighed, projecting john-you-are-intolerably-dull-sometimes with every fiber of his being. "John, it's Christmas. In London. Obviously I'm going to go."
John's eyebrows drew together. "What?"
Sherlock gave him a look of incredulity, the effect of which was rather ruined by the snow frosting his dark hair. "Christmas in London? The Doctor shows up almost every year! How could I miss something as exciting as Christmas aliens?"
John rolled his eyes. "It's just a party, Sherlock. There's probably only going to be one alien in attendance."
Sherlock sighed. "Yes, I know, but regardless… Think of the opportunities, John! Think of what we could learn! Now, if only he'd give me a sample of his DNA…"
They were interrupted by the fast approaching clip of high-heeled shoes, muffled by the accumulating snow.
"Boys, boys, boys. Standing out in the cold? My mother isn't all that scary, is she?"
"River," Sherlock retorted, rather scathingly. They'd had some… interactions, in the past, none of them ending particularly pleasantly.
Grabbing them both by their elbows, River yanked them up the front walk and rapped sharply on the front door.
"River," John queried, "What on earth are you wearing?"
"Oh, don't you like it?" River grinned, "It's Victorian. I fancied a shopping trip, you see."
Just then, Rory opened the door. All three blinked.
It was River who spoke first.
"Dad, where on earth did you get that sweater? And what is on your head?"
Rory looked down at his sweater, then (rather unsucessfully) tried to look up at his own hat, before turning back back to his guests. "It's spirited!" he protested, as River moved into the doorway and plucked the wreath off his head.
"Oh, you know I have a peeve for bad hats. Now come on, Mummy's going to be needing help with the party." She began to bustle her way down the short entrance hallway and into the kitchen before pausing and turning to glare at Sherlock and John, who were still standing out on the front step. "Well, come on then!" she snapped, gesturing with her head for them to enter. "It's Christmas! There's a party to be had," she added, her eyes sparkling.
"Ah, yes, right," John mumbled awkwardly before grabbing Sherlock's forearm and yanking him inside.
"If I had known that I was going to be subjected to her company I most certainly would not have come," Sherlock muttered discontentedly.
"Oh, come on. I'm sure it won't end up like last time, not with all these people here. Don't be a baby, Sherlock," John whispered back.
Still grumbling, Sherlock swept into the entryway and shed his familiar coat and scarf while John shut the door against the frigid air.
Dean lay stretched out on the (rather uncomfortable) motel bed, casually sipping a beer and watching the cheesy Christmas program on the crappy television. Sam sat at the table, typing away on the laptop, researching some case or another.
A trio of angels danced their way across the screen, and Dean chuckled. Sam looked up from his research. "What?" he called across the room.
Dean glanced over at him before turning his attention back to the screen. "Oh, nothing, man. Angels."
Sam smirked, letting out a huff of laughter. "Not as advertised, huh?"
Dean shook his head. "Don't you and I know it." He took another swig of beer. Sam resumed his typing.
The comfortable silence permeating the motel room was broken with the sharp whoosh of the TARDIS materializing. It set down with a thunk, startling both Sam and Dean. They were on their feet, knives drawn, before they even registered that the Doctor had somehow managed to park with the door facing the wall.
The TARDIS de-materialized, and showed up again facing the right way. A crashing noise came from within, and then the Doctor's engine-grease stained face emerged, grinning wildly as he took in the appearance of the two hunters.
His grin quickly turned to a frown as he looked around the hotel room. "Are you two not celebrating Christmas, then?"
Dean looked at his brother and shrugged, tucking his knife away and straightening from his ready-to-attack position. "Nah. Just relaxin'. You got something for us, Doc?"
Without another word, the Doctor herded the two boys into the TARDIS, and let out a great cry of "CASTIEL!"
No answer.
With a sigh, he turned to Dean, who was sitting on the bench, clutching the console rail with a look of apprehension. Flying was bad. TARDIS flying was worse.
"Dean, can you call him, please? It's important."
Dean nodded, trying to speak around the lump in his throat. It didn't quite work the first time, and he let out a hoarse, "Cas?" barely above a whisper. He swallowed. "CAS, GET DOWN HERE, YOU SONUVABITCH! WE HAVE A VISITOR!" he managed on the second try, his call echoing through the TARDIS. A flutter of angel wings, and Cas was inside, looking rather bemusedly between the Winchesters and the Doctor.
"Doctor," he intoned, inclining his head.
"Cas!" the Doctor yelped excitedly, moving to hug the angel, who looked decidedly uncomfortable about the whole affair.
After he was done terrorizing the angels, the Doctor ran around the console, flipping switches. Dean looked absolutely terrified when there was a burst of sparks and a faintly creaky groan and then the TARDIS was… airborne? Timeborne? Wherever it was, it was flying.
They came to a stop with a spin and a thunk. The Doctor grabbed his charges and pulled them out into… a living room?
Dean was looking rather green, but he still staggered out of the TARDIS and looked around skeptically.
"Is there a… case here?" Sam wondered, turning to the Doctor with confusion.
The I-am-an-explosive-excited-puppy look was back. "Not quite!" he chuckled, pulling them into the other room which was beginning to smell like Christmas cookies.
There was quite a bit of noise from the Pond's that night. It got so bad that one of the neighbors even went and knocked on the door, purely out of concern that they had somehow acquired a very large and frustrated elephant. He quickly fled when Rory answered the door wearing a wreath on his head and assured him that everything was absolutely fine (just as a Christmas cookie sailed out the open doorway to hit the unfortunate inquirer in the face).
It didn't help at all when the helicopter flew directly overhead, depositing a very strange group of people right on the street. Most of the neighbors stayed inside after that one.
The leader of the group, or so it seemed, strode forward in his suit and sunglasses (what kind of person wears sunglasses at night with a suit?) and knocked on the door with a hand covered in some sort of strange-looking mechanical glove. He was closely followed by a tall, well-coiffed blonde man in an old-fashioned military uniform and a giant with longer blonde hair, bouncing excitedly with every enormous step he took. Then there were two smaller-ish men, one of them looking decidedly uncomfortable but still wearing a festive Santa hat, and the other escorting a drop-dead gorgeous redhead in some sort of complicated-looking dress up the walk.
There were several small explosions at one point, and then a large bang and a steady in-out, in-out whoosh that faded away. All was silent for perhaps an hour.
Then, suddenly, the in-out, in-out whoosh pierced the night once again, and the strangest assortment of people imaginable poured out of this blue... box... thing. Christmas dinner was forgotten temporarily, and even the lure of a present or two couldn't tempt the children away from the windows. There were the helicopter-people, two tall men in flannel and one in a trench coat, the Ponds, a woman in an elaborate red dress, another man, and then… some sort of… thing.
"A CHRISTMAS OOD FROM THE MOON!" shouted another man at the gently snowing sky. He was attired rather strangely with a colander on his head and a bow-tie covered in blinking Christmas lights.
All in all, the neighborhood was immensely relieved when the noises died down and they could go to bed.
There were also, needless to say, extraordinarily surprised when under their trees the next morning a strange gift lay waiting for each of them.
It was addressed To: Amy Says We Were Too Loud And We're Sorry
From: The Doctor, Rory, Sam, Dean, Cas, Tony, Steve, Bruce, Thor, Natasha, Clint, Sherlock, John, and River (the last name had a kiss mark next to it in bright red lipstick—they didn't dare ask)
Also, it seemed to have rather mysteriously snowed two inches on a clear, star-lit night.
And none of this was lost in the man with the old, old eyes, his bow-tie winking merrily from an upstairs window as he smiled down at the streets full of delighted children on Christmas Morning.
He gave his TARDIS a pat, gazing at her fondly. He chuckled. "Engine trouble indeed, you knew exactly what you were doing, didn't you?" he asked.
There was no reply.
Downstairs, Rory was curled up on top of his wife as they lay on the couch, while she loudly proclaimed that they were never, ever, EVER hosting a Christmas party ever again. (it could have something to do with the new mural painted in eggnog on the wall- or perhaps the lamp wrapped in approximately fifty layers of tissue paper and still shining brightly with a bright mechanical glow even though it wasn't plugged into the wall anymore- or simply the fact that there was not a crumb of food left in the house.)
In a small hotel room in America, a very, very inebriated Dean Winchester yanked a very confused angel down onto the bed and proceeded to fall asleep the instant he was sufficiently wrapped around him, leaving Sam laughing hysterically before he flopped down onto his own bed and Cas muttering to himself "I… I do not understand…" before tentatively hugging Dean back and settling down into the crappy motel bed.
Far, far away, in New York City itself, the Avengers tower was abuzz with the booming laughter of a Norse God who'd finally managed to drink enough "puny moral mead" to get himself rip-roaringly drunk. There were several brightly colored explosions that emanated from Tony's lab, crashing through the window to light up the night sky with shades of red and green for a good ten minutes. Natasha and Clint were suspiciously absent for most of the proceedings.
Back in England, Sherlock was blinking himself awake with a moan as the hangover hit him, only to find himself looking at a dark room illuminated only by the glow of Christmas lights and John curled up on his chest. He stayed there for a moment, temporarily stunned, before closing his eyes again. The DNA samples he'd (hopefully) gotten off of the Doctor's glass, which had been filled with milk for some odd reason, could wait. It was Christmas, after all.
And back at the Pond residence, a nearly forgotten Ood stood in the kitchen contentedly humming and wiping down the powdered-sugar covered counters, thankful to be back on a planet where there was something to straighten besides rather uncooperative rocks.
The TARDIS hummed contentedly to itself.
It was a good Christmas.