This story was published in the Doctor Who charity anthology Twice Upon A Time Scope in December 2020.

‘I still don’t see the point of it,’ muttered Turlough, as he rummaged in the cardboard box, his shirt sleeve catching on another piece of tinsel.

‘Well,’ the Doctor replied, his head buried deep within the branches of the artificial Christmas tree in the corner of the brightly lit console room, ‘I always thought that it was one of those things that one shouldn’t try too hard to see the point of. It sort of means something to everyone, and that can be whatever they want it to be. I quite like that.’

He pulled himself out of the tree and smiled at Turlough, a long line of star-shaped lights wound about his Edwardian frock coat.

‘Of course,’ he continued, unable to resist the temptation of imparting information to his companion, ‘the tradition of having a Christmas tree is thought to have originated in Germany in the 16th century…but there are instances of the symbolic use of evergreens going as far back as Ancient Egypt…’

Turlough’s eyes glassed over as he was reminded of lectures at Brendon School. He handed the Doctor a couple of green, glass baubles.

‘It just seems a bit silly to me.’

‘Kindness, Turlough. That’s what it’s about. And the opportunity to stop for a while and…well, just generally be nice to each other. And besides, it’s more for Tegan than you or I.’

Turlough shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot.

‘I’m still not entirely convinced that she likes me, you know,’ he grumbled.

The Doctor considered his companion’s words, before fishing what looked like a black tube from his pocket and disappearing back among the ticklish branches.

‘She’s a little guarded, I’ll give you that. Hardly surprising when you consider what she’s been through. Don’t forget, you came on board after she’d had another run in with the Mara. Anyway, what better than a TARDIS Christmas for putting aside differences and spending time with friends?’

The tree, or rather the tube that the Doctor was pressing within its branches, issued a strange, high-pitched buzzing.

‘You can carry on with the tinsel around the console if you’d like,’ the Doctor suggested.

Turlough rolled his eyes and let out a long sigh of frustration, which the Doctor chose to ignore.

‘Crackers, mulled wine…we could always take in a Boxing Day Test, that would be quite the treat to take Tegan back home.’

Turlough had no idea what a Boxing Day Test was, but assumed from the hint of excitement in the Doctor’s voice that it was something to do with cricket. Another interminable memory from the days before he’d joined the Doctor caused him to shudder.

Within half an hour, the console room looked very different. The Doctor had dimmed the lights in the room to create what he had suggested would be a warmer atmosphere, but to Turlough it looked more like the TARDIS was malfunctioning again. The tree, fully decorated with presents beneath, sat impressively next to the scanner, lights slowly glowing into existence before fading as a second set blossomed, the pattern set to repeat at fixed intervals. The console was bedecked in tinsel, green and red running around the circumference of the hexagonal structure. The time rotor, rising and falling in the centre of the console was barely visible thanks to Turlough’s enthusiastic efforts with a can of spray snow, much to the Doctor’s irritation. Even the hatstand hadn’t managed to avoid a little festive attention, festooned in multi-coloured, crepe paper streamers.

A deep, fruity scent washed over Turlough as he put the finishing touches to a ‘Snowlurian’ by the main doors. The Doctor had apparently rigged up a self-contained, miniature temperature vacuum to prevent the sculpture of the Earth reptile from melting. As he looked over his shoulder for the source of the smell, Turlough saw the Doctor wheeling in a trolley from the corridor, laden with enough food to ensure that they wouldn’t need to eat for the rest of the day. Whenever that might be, he considered, as time in the TARDIS was relative, as the Doctor was always explaining to them.

‘There,’ the Doctor announced, proudly. ‘Would you so good as to wake Tegan?’

 
The laughter around the small, rectangular table was warm and contented. Tegan had cried, a little, at first, which had confused Turlough somewhat and had made the Doctor feel uncomfortable. Fortunately, the wave of emotions that had overcome their friend was brief, although Tegan’s gratitude was palpable and the three companions had enjoyed a rare opportunity to relax.

‘It’s easy to lose sight of this, in among the travelling,’ the Doctor observed, a slight melancholy tone in his voice.

‘Small, beautiful events?’ Tegan asked, catching his eye as the two of them shared a look of days gone by and absent friends.

‘Indeed. What did you make of the plum pudding?’

Tegan sat back in her chair and exhaled.

‘It was incredible. Just like Auntie Vanessa used to make.’

‘Well, it should have been,’ the Doctor confessed. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I used the TARDIS’s telepathic circuits to locate the recipe. I hope that I did her proud.’

Tegan smiled and sipped at her mulled wine. She thought back to when she had first stepped into the labyrinthine corridors of the Doctor’s time machine. If he’d done something like that back then, there would have been hell to pay. In time, she had come to learn that it was just his way of doing things. He could have just asked for the recipe, but that would have made him feel uncomfortable, having to address both Tegan’s loss and his guilt around what he felt was his own role in the death of her aunt.

‘Perfect,’ she said, nostalgia tugging at her emotions again. ‘Besides, Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas…’

‘Do you know, I nearly forgot,’ the Doctor announced, pointing briefly at Tegan. ‘The piece de resistance. I modified the tree. Gave it a little technological overhaul.’

‘Oh, no!’ Exclaimed Tegan. ‘And I was having such a nice time.’

The Doctor appeared wounded.

‘Nonsense. Turlough helped. We’ve had good food, good company, We’ll get to presents shortly. What’s missing?’

Turlough shrugged, half-assuming that the Doctor’s question was aimed at Tegan, who stared blankly at the Time Lord.

‘Music!’

The Doctor clicked his fingers and a tune began to play, softly. The branches of the tree rustled and swayed almost imperceptibly, as if they were being coaxed by the gentlest of breezes. The scent of pine needles wafted throughout the console room.

‘It’s Jingle Bells!’ Tegan cried, recognising the tinny version of the Christmas carol.

The Doctor smiled as he saw a trace of joy and wonder upon his companion’s face. Just as a small shower of sparks exploded from within the tree.

‘That’s not supposed to happen,’ he frowned.

‘Doctor…the branches,’ Tegan yelped, jumping to her feet. ‘Are they…spinning?’

The Doctor squinted, reaching into his pockets for his half-moon spectacles. The branches did appear to be starting to spin, row by row slowly beginning to circle around the trunk of the artificial tree.

Gradually, the branches began to spin faster and the base of the tree seemed to stamp impatiently on the console room floor. With a crash, the tree tore itself from its moorings within one of the roundels, the star lights burning brighter, the branches whipping into a frenzy.

Together, the Doctor and his two companions backed away from the table, just as the tree careered out of control, smashing into the leftovers and sending splinters of table and splashes of brandy butter against the walls.

‘Doctor,’ screeched Turlough, ducking beneath the console ‘do something!’

The Doctor dragged Tegan away from the remnants of the table, putting the console between themselves and the out-of-control Spruce.

‘Hold on tight,’ he yelled, reaching across and pulling at the door handle.

The double doors of the TARDIS swung open as the Doctor stumbled across to the hatstand. From nowhere, he pulled out an old cricket bat and circled around, bat held out in front of him as he approached the viciously spinning branches that looked as though they might slice his arm from his body. He thrust the bat into the melee and pushed, splinters of wood spitting at his face. He pushed again and again, forcing the deadly evergreen towards the open doors, the wind from the branches whipping at his hair, the cricket bat getting shorter by the second. The Doctor gave a final shove and sent the tree whirling out of the doors and into the time vortex.

Tegan closed the TARDIS doors as the Doctor slumped to the ground, a sharpened stake that he had once scored a hundred with clasped in his fingers.

‘Merry Christmas, Tegan,’ he smiled, sheepishly.

Tegan sighed.
 
Somewhere and perhaps somewhen, in deep space the tree spiralled out of control, sparking intermittently, flashing lights amid a sky full of stars. As it tumbled and twirled, a dark shadow fell across it and in the blinking of an eye, the tree froze, held immobile in the grip of an artificial gravitational beam. Curious eyes surveyed the object from within the Sycorax ship…