So this will start in kind of an episode format and move on from there. Still not sure which direction the story will go on, but I hope you'll enjoy whatever choice I make. And without further ado…
The Snowmen
London, 1892
In the dimly lit pub that cold December night, oh so very long ago, all inhibitions were lost upon the wild inhabitants so willing to cause a ruckus. The entire building was a haze of drunken men and pretty serving girls, and as the night progressed, it was getting harder and harder to tell which was which.
The Doctor rather liked it that way.
He didn't often come to pubs, of course. Mainly he just stayed up in the air, in his TARDIS, occasionally coming down to the earth just to find some purpose other than moping. But just because he didn't spend all of his time cooped up in the blue box in the air, it wasn't to be taken to mean that he would be coming out of retirement.
Because he wouldn't. Not now, not ever, despite his friends' most valiant efforts. And they were commendable, really, but the efforts on the parts of Vastra, Jenny, and Strax were fruitless. With his beloved Ponds gone, there really was no point in continuing on. It would only end in further pain and suffering, both for him and for the rest of the universe at large.
Tonight, though, was one of those nights, the ones where he couldn't stop thinking about things he should have said or done, things that could have saved his loved ones. His Amy, his Rory, and all those that had come before them. Too much dwelling on these subject matters led to his need to escape, even if just for a quick drink.
Strax, of course, insisted on tagging along. The stupid little bugger had trailed him insistently ever since he'd arrived. Sometimes, he wasn't so bad, but other times the Doctor just wanted to throttle him, which would be quite difficult, seeing as how the shape of his head made it nearly impossible for someone's hands to fit around his nonexistent neck. He was waiting outside now, in the carriage, seeing as how the people of the nineteenth century might be just a tad in shock to see an obviously otherworldly creature in front of them. Or perhaps they were too drunk off their faces to even care.
"What can I get you, sir?"
The Doctor turned his attention to the bartender, a young man who couldn't have been more than thirty, with sharp blue eyes and a certain accent to his voice that the Doctor couldn't yet place. He was looking at the Doctor expectantly – Oh, right, yes, he was supposed to order now. He'd nearly forgotten.
"Ale," said the Doctor after a moment's hesitation. "A pint."
"Coming right up," the man behind the counter smiled at him. He had a rather nice smile, the Doctor noticed. His mouth had quirked upward slightly, showing off pearly whites, before disappearing just as quickly. Hmm. Well, at least the Doctor could place his accent now. It was distinctly Welsh. It made the Doctor wonder what a Welshman was doing working at a London pub.
"Here you are." A tall glass was placed in front of him, blocking his view. The Welshman gave him another half-smile from behind the bar.
"Thank you," the Doctor took a sip of sweet liquid. He waited a moment, but the man standing behind the counter didn't leave. He just remained staring at him, looking curious. The Doctor frowned.
"Sorry, do I know you?" The Welshman was frowning as well. "I feel as if I recognize you from somewhere."
"Nope," the Doctor said immediately. "Must be someone else." As far as he knew, that was the truth. But he'd visited this time period before. Actually, he may have started a riot in this time period before, so it was probably best to avoid anyone who would recognize him from that particular instance. That was a fun riot. Amy had…Amy. Damn it. He was thinking about Amy again.
"That's a curious accent you have," the Doctor returned his attention to the bartender with the nice smile. "Welsh, isn't it?"
"Yes," He nodded in affirmation. "Moved to London a couple of months ago."
"Can I ask why?" The Doctor couldn't help being curious. He rather liked talking to people, even if he wasn't saving their lives anymore.
The man shrugged. "Came with my sister after my parents passed away."
"My condolences," the Doctor took another a look at his glass of ale before downing it in one fluid motion. Ah, how he needed that. Setting the bottle back on the table, he pushed himself up out of his seat. "Good night, Mister…?"
"Jones," the man said. "Ianto Jones."
"Good night, Jones, Ianto Jones," the Doctor tipped his hat to the bartender, who's lips parted in that little half-smile once again. Maneuvering his way through a group of older drunken gentlemen falling over one another due to their inebriation, the Doctor made it out the creaking wooden doorway and into the snowy, frozen night.
Pulling his jacket more tightly around his shoulders in an attempt to block out the harsh winter winds, the Doctor meandered down the sidewalk, looking for Strax and the carriage. He knew they had to be around here somewhere. Oh, that's right! The carriage was resting in the alley between the pub and the neighboring bookstore. Turning on his heel, he located the correct alleyway. Or at least, what he thought was the correct alleyway. He was probably wrong, but it couldn't hurt to check.
He treaded through the snow as he felt the newly formed flakes melt against his body heat. His average temperature was a bit higher than a human's, around ninety-nine degrees, and therefore, the elements usually had the same effects on him. The wind whistled through the streets, and the Doctor heard a door creak open behind him.
He turned just a fraction of an inch to see a door that led back into the pub, probably a back door for employees to exit and enter the building, swinging open. A person appeared from behind it, a man who shut the door quickly and quietly and turned out to face the street. It was only then that the Doctor recognized him – The bartender with the smile. Jones, Ianto Jones.
Not in the mood to speak to him again, the Doctor turned away and kept walking down the snowy street. The sound of the man's voice startled him.
"Excuse me, but did you make that snowman?"
The Doctor didn't remember seeing a snowman when he had passed through, but yet he didn't turn around. "No," he answered, purposefully not turning around to face the other man.
"That's odd," Ianto continued talking, and despite the Doctor's want to just walk away, he still listened to the Welsh vowels issuing from the man's mouth. "It just appeared there a moment ago."
Now that caught the Doctor's attention. He turned around and, just as Ianto Jones had said, there was a snowman standing there, not three feet behind where the Doctor had just passed moments before. Definitely not there before. He gave Ianto a quick glance and saw the flicker of recognition in the Welshman's eyes. The Doctor pulled his horn-rimmed glasses out of his pocket; he slid the lenses onto his nose as he leaned over to inspect the mysterious snowman.
Ah.
"Hmmm…" He examined the white figure. He had been seeing these things around for quite a while now, each and every one of them the same. The old Doctor would have investigated. Him? No. Though he had to admit it was a bit curious. "Same snow as before. It must remember how to make snowmen."
"Snow that can remember?" Ianto sounded quite confused. The Doctor felt a rustle of fabric to his left and realized that the other man had stepped up next to him and was now examining the snowman as well. The Doctor purposefully inched away. "That's impossible."
"And what's wrong with impossible?"
Ianto gave him that quirky half-smile again. "Nothing. Nothing at all."
Oh, the Doctor liked this one. It was a shame he couldn't do anything about it. Instead, he smiled back at the man in the same way he was becoming so accustomed to, and turned away, purposefully taking longer strides than usual.
"Oi!" The Doctor glanced back at the sound of Ianto's voice. "You didn't even give me your name. I'd think it would be polite and all, seeing how you have mine."
"Those were the days, Jones, Ianto Jones," the Doctor said sadly, looking down at the quickly piling snow on the ground. "Those were the days."
One last time, the Doctor turned on his heel, hurrying through the cold streets of London. He rather did like this Jones fellow, but that was beside the point. It was cold, he was tired, and he needed to find his ride.
It didn't take him long to locate Strax. Apparently, he had found the wrong street. The one he had left Strax at was one alley over. Just his luck, of course. And in keeping with the theme of the night, there was a call from Vastra immediately as he pulled himself inside the warm confines of the carriage.
"It's nice to see you taking an interest again," Vastra's voice echoed throughout the space. The Doctor rolled his eyes at her comment. Of course she saw. Jenny was probably there, in the alley, spying. While the Doctor usually appreciated his friends, sometimes they could be a bit much. "What was his name?"
"I just talked to him for five minutes," the Doctor ignored her question and looked up at the sound box issuing the lizard woman's voice, wishing he could speak to her face to face just so he could properly convey his annoyance.
"And made your usual impact, I presume?"
"No, no, not at all," the Doctor wondered why Strax wasn't joining in on the commentary yet. Usually, the potato head was the first person to make a comment about anything. After himself, of course. Though not so much now, he supposed.
"Come on, Doctor, it always starts the same way, with the same two words," Vastra sounded amused. The Doctor was fast becoming impatient.
"He'll never be able to find me again," he glared up at the box, for even though he knew Vastra couldn't see him, it still gave him a sense of self-satisfaction. "He doesn't even have the name 'the Doctor.'"
Suddenly, a slightly familiar voice with a Welsh accent wafted back to him from the front of the carriage. "Doctor who?"
