Day Four
A/N: And here it is, the fourth day and the Fourth Doctor. Stick around for my story tomorrow, featuring good old Peter Davison.
There she was, the old girl herself (no, not dear Sarah Jane, not this time): the mighty TARDIS, blue as ever, now covered in a fine layer of frost, which was beginning to melt as the sun rose higher in the sky. The doors creaked open, and a tall man in an impossibly long, oddly-patterned scarf and deep red coat – Christmas red, it could be claimed – stepped forward to lean against the doorframe. He placed a hat over his curly hair, folded his arms, and scowled deeply, as was his habit. He sighed heavily, breathing in the bitter London air and looking at the lively street with his brow furrowed. He watched. Observed. Noted. Learned.
After what he deemed a sufficient amount of examination, rather bored of watching the people on James Street mill about, the Doctor removed himself from the eaves of his TARDIS. He pushed off onto the sidewalk, letting the doors close behind him, and engaged himself in the sparse clusters of humans. In their coats and stockings and gloves and hats and other winter wear, they carried on, each in their own ways, not noticing anything peculiar about the tall man, the Doctor, but for his eccentric clothing and wild eyes.
He studied them from within now: children clung to the hands of mothers and fathers, laughing, people flowed from and into and pubs like water, several people stood looking at a decorated fir tree, and a sort of pleasant quality was thick in the air.
He knew what day it was, of course. He'd meant to be exactly there and then, Londontown on Christmas Day. It was no mistake that he found himself now at the foot of a very large evergreen tree, strung almost haphazardly with little lights and ornaments of soldiers and ballerinas and stars and peppermints, though the scowl he wore would certainly lead one to believe that it was indeed not where he wanted to be at all. Eyes wide and focused, he investigated the "Christmas tree", trying to see in it what humans saw so plainly.
After looking it from the woody base to the star on the very top with immense scrutiny, he turned from it, deciding to try a different approach. He felt in his pocket for some change, and found several coins there. Check. He proceeded down the sidewalk again, walking farther away from the TARDIS than he would really like to be in a city setting such as this. After a time of this, he turned abruptly toward a site of interest on his right and into a man carrying a large box. "Oi, whatcha tryna pull there, Scrooge? It's Christmas, you know; watch where you're going!" he shouted, though the imbalance hardly inconvenienced him; the box remained firmly in his arms.
"Why's it always that? 'Scrooge'… I do wonder," he muttered after a handful of apologies to the man as he was drawn into the dim pub. He crossed to the counter and stood with an expression of distaste.
"What'll it be, pal?" the bartender asked him in a gruff voice. The Doctor looked at him, calculating. Then he brought his palm to the varnished wood countertop, the coins from his pocket making minimal noise.
"I'm here," the Doctor moved closer, "... for information," he said quietly, discreetly, leaning over the counter to whisper to him. He slid his hand across and withdrew it, leaving the money there. The bartender glanced down at it, then back at the Doctor.
"... Just what sort of information are ya looking for, eh?" He looked at him warily, not taking the coins.
"Tell me about Christmas. Why's it so bleeding happy?" the Doctor asked it as if he were desired a deadly secret.
The bartender feigned shock. "Christmas? I'm 'fraid there's not much I can tell you about that, sir." He eyed the few coins on the counter in front of him. "'Cept, of course, that it's top secret." He pocketed the money quickly, tapping his nose, and gave the Doctor a stern look. "You'd best be careful when asking about things like that. Happiness. Bah. It's the life of Old Ebenezer for me."
"Ah," the Doctor said quietly. "I see. Well, I'd thank you for your time, but this visit was less revealing than I'd hoped it to be. Also, I gave you all the money in my pocket with absolutely no gain. So. Farewell." He waved, turning, and the bartender went back to washing the countertop with a grimy rag.
Again amidst the curiously good cheer of James Street outside, the Doctor touched the brim of his hat, squinting at the people before him. He searched for common themes among them, calculated probabilities, scrutinised actions and reactions, and continued to be baffled by the general euphoria that was Christmas Day. He began to walk back to the TARDIS, his hands in his pockets and his eyes cast to the ground, thinking, thinking.
He unlocked the TARDIS and reclaimed his position in the doorway, leaning against the blue wood in thought, frowning.
As he withdrew into the time machine, he came to but one conclusion based on the research of the day:
That a day's worth of study and scientific analysis would provide no insight to the curious compulsions of the human mind; Christmas was Christmas and that was that.