Day Ten
The day had so far been pleasant enough, given that no unexpected trips to the moon had yet been made, and no intelligent rhinoceri had taken any hospitals captive even relatively in the vicinity of where they'd parked the TARDIS. That explained, it was a rather docile atmosphere that had taken hold of the time machine. Incredibly, horribly, unbearably, stupidly boring, the Doctor was thinking, but docile enough.
With the tension of docility contrasting the storm of the Doctor's disquiet, it was only fitting that he should announce, "Why, Martha Jones, I think it's Christmas Eve."
Martha looked around the TARDIS in confusion and replied, "Ah, no, Doctor, it's not exactly…"
The Doctor was resolute. "Oh, but Martha, it is." He got that wild look in his eye, inputting coordinates and information and commands into the console rapidly, grinning.
"No, I don't think it is… This is a time machine; don't you always say that 'there are no holidays on a time machine'?"
"Well, I guess that means we don't have to wait for the seasons to change to bust out the old Christmas tree, eh?" He was somewhat distracted, programming the TARDIS flight path. "Let's go somewhere."
Martha gripped her jacket and tilted her head to the side, mildly interested, remembering holidays spent with her family long ago. "Hm. Like where?"
"Well, as rumour would have it," he said smugly, "word around the TARDIS is that you played a little bit of the trumpet when you were younger, is that -?"
Martha, obviously disturbed that he would know such a thing, exclaimed "Now just where did you hear that?! Oh, God, Doctor, you didn't -"
"No, no, no, no, Martha, even I have more boundaries than that!" the Doctor reassured her. Then, he muttered, "Your mother told me."
"She - oh, she promised she wouldn't tell anyone! That was horrible; it was only three lessons, for God's sake. You'd think she'd let it lie, but -"
"What I was trying to suggest, Martha, is that we should see a play. Or an orchestra. A performance. People do that at Christmas, and it's Christmas, and I think we should watch The Nutcracker, personally, but I'm open to suggestions." He adjusted a few dials on the console while Martha considered it.
"Why?" she finally said.
"Why what?" the Doctor questioned.
"Why now? Are you going to die? Am I going to die? Doctor, if you're already aware, I'd like to know if I'm going to die."
"No, of course not. I'm just in the Christmas spirit. Aren't you? Martha, it doesn't work if you're not in the Christmas spirit. Then it's just bland. Like celery. Well…" He shook his head, making a face and sticking out his tongue. "Acgh, no, look I've nearly ruined Christmas for myself just thinking about it."
"Hey, I like celery!" Martha protested.
"Oh, that explains a lot," the Doctor quipped under his breath.
"Oi!" She hit his arm lightly. Then she straightened, squaring her shoulders decidedly. "Fine. Fine, Doctor. We'll go to a ballet. We'll sit through The Nutcracker for Christmas because that's what you do at Christmas, and you can look at all the people in tights and tell me again how much fun it is to watch performances."
The Doctor looked delighted, and he ignored her sarcasm. "Fine indeed! Go! Go change!
"Right now?"
"Yes, yes, right now, when else would we go? This is a time machine after all; we haven't got a second to lose! Put on something nice!" Martha laughed as she dashed from the room. "I'm wearing brown!" he called after her. "You'd better not match me, or one of us will have to change, and it's not going to be me!"
He straightened his tie in the reflection of a monitor and brushed off some hardly detectable lint from his brown pinstripe suit. He pulled on his long overcoat, pondering something Martha had said just now.
Would Martha die someday while travelling with him? Or would he leave her somewhere? Earth? Or would she leave him? The possibilities horrified him. What a shame it would be to lose such a bright, passionate companion as she.
He moved to a more pressing, though less weighty thought: when to visit? And where? He thought a moment, then quickly typed in the coordinates into the TARDIS locational divisor, shooting for a pleasant 1900 time frame in Russia. He always did like original versions better than adaptations. He sent the TARDIS into flight, the much-adored vworping filling the console room.
Shortly after landing, Martha reappeared looking ravishing in Christmas red. She glared at him for not changing while she was told in so many words to do so, but the scowl disappeared when he offered her his arm. She smiled, and he led the way out of the front doors and into the cold Siberian air.