The Doctor Works on Christmas

by Kindred19

On Christmas Eve, a young girl encounters someone quite different from Santa in her living room. Simply put, this is the first person fictional account of the writer's encounter with the Doctor. A first attempt at first person fan fiction. Completely fictional, unfortunately. Therefore, I claim rights to nothing but my words. Enjoy, feel free to review, and look for more to come!

1. Chapter 1

I rolled over towards my phone.

2:33am.

I'm pretty sure that I hadn't slept at all in those three hours I had been in bed. And Blake still hadn't texted me back.

I flipped over onto my back. Lying there, with the moon shining through my window, I was vaguely reminded of all of those sleepless nights I had spent waiting for the morning when I would dash down the stairs to see the Christmas tree. The presents had always been secondary to the magic that was the glowing, colorful beacon of Christmas in our tiny living room. I remember lying awake in bed that night and pacing my breathing so that Santa wouldn't hear me awake and skip over our house. I was a strong believer. Back then.

But on this Christmas Eve, I lay awake waiting, not for a jolly old man with a beard to slide down my chimney, but for a boy who was less than a man to respond to my four word text.

Merry Christmas, Blake! :)

I knew it was stupid. Yet my mind insisted on keeping me awake so I could analyze and over-analyze every possible reason why he wasn't responding, and then, when that didn't yield any comprehensive results, to justify this life choice to myself. Yeah, he wasn't a great guy, certainly not the type that I would ever marry (or even date?), so why did it matter whether or not he even read my text? Why am I doing this?

BUZZ.

I nearly toppled onto the floor in my attempt to snatch my phone of my bedside table. But it wasn't a text. It was simply vibrating. A call? I tried to answer it, but it continued ringing. And it continued, no matter what button I pressed. Weird.

SNAP.

Now that was a very different sound, one which I was all too familiar with: the sound of my famous Christmas pinwheel cookies being snapped in half. From downstairs. Childhood nostalgia washed over me: the anticipation, the fear, the utter trepidation at the idea of hearing The Man at his work. Except this time, it wasn't. Nor was it my parents, who had been soundly asleep at 1:30 after their respective holiday duties. Also weird.

Then, suddenly, three things happened. My phone stopped buzzing. A large WHOOSH from the living room. And the yelp of a male voice.

I was in my sweatshirt and at the top of the stairs before I had realized what had happened. I think I was clutching my old field hockey stick, but I don't remember. My staircase wrapped around an corner to splay out into our living room. Eyes on the steps. Venturing down. I didn't want to see what it was anyway.

VROOM. SQUEAK.

I looked up. I was bathed in the light of our tree, and so was a large, square telephone booth in the middle of our living room. I must have put my fist in my mouth to keep myself from shrieking, or else I was struck dumb in that moment. One of the two. As my eyes adjusted to the lighting of the room, I took in the box and a man, or half a man rather, protruding out of it into the room. Mechanical tinkering sounds came from inside the box. His converse-clad feet twitched playfully. And across the top of the box read, "Police Call Box."

"Oh bother!"

And that's when I did scream.