Possibly, I'm Insane

“You see,” the Doctor said, “it’s a puzzle.”

“I do see…” Sam Tyler agreed.

“No, he doesn’t,” Gene Hunt said belligerently. “That doesn’t make any sense. What’s a puzzle?”

“The reason we’re all here today—” the Doctor begins.

“But also how to solve it!” Sherlock concludes triumphantly. “Oh, of course, that’s rather clever, isn’t it? A simple jigsaw puzzle.”

“A jigsaw puzzle composed of the fabric of time and space itself,” the Doctor corrected him.

Sherlock, uncorrectable, glared.

Hunt proclaimed, “Stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of.”

Sherlock said, “Don’t worry, idiots needn’t help us solve it.”

Pete says they should take a vacation.

“We should just lay on a beach somewhere and…do nothing.” He sighs wistfully.

Patrick says, “I will burn to a crisp.”

“What about the ‘do nothing’ part, hmm? Does that appeal to you?”

“Maybe.” He does feel like their lives have been nonstop since the album dropped.

“I can also do things during the ‘do nothing’ part. Like, we could define some things that might be acceptable during the ‘do nothing’ part.”

“Is this you being seductive?”

“I’m like the Sexiest Man Alive, you know.”

“Uh-huh. That went straight to your head, too.”

John has this idea that a ski trip will be a fun family holiday. He’s not the best at skiing, but he likes very much the thought of going on holiday. He feels like they need it. It’s been a long year full of murder, and yes, that’s their lives, but still. He wants to sit by a fireplace sipping hot cocoa.

Mycroft says, “At a ski resort in the Alps? Nasty hotbeds of international intrigue.”

This recommends the idea to Sherlock. “Oh, excellent, let’s go.”

John supposes he shouldn’t be surprised when someone dies in an avalanche and Sherlock insists it was murder. He suspects Mycroft arranged the whole thing.

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It’s odd to John how familiar it’s become for him to spend Christmas at a grand estate. It’s all so beloved to him now as the place where so much perfect madness happened. He navigates its layout, including its multiple staircases. He recognizes the sounds of its various antique clocks around the hallways. But mostly he associates the house with the smells of Christmas: the freshness of the greenery, the spices from the mulled wine, the rich steam of decadent puddings. John would marvel at the Christmases he experiences here – but he marvels daily at Sherlock, so that’s nothing new.

auntiesuze

Arthur is fine with greenery all over their house, wreaths on the doors, trees in every corner, garland over the fireplace mantles and balustrades.

But he draws the line at the pine boughs over their bed.

Eames accuses him of being a Scrooge.

Arthur says calmly, “I’m not a Scrooge.” He doesn’t defend himself further because he knows when he is right and he knows what it will take for Eames to admit it.

And the first time a pine needle pricks him in an inappropriate place during an inappropriate time, Eames removes the pine boughs from above their bed.

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John thinks Oliver should take lessons. As if there’s anything Oliver could learn from other people!

“It’s just that it’s good for kids to learn new skills. Karate—”

“I can teach him self-defense skills.”

“—or cooking—”

“Cooking is just chemistry, I can teach him that, too.”

“These would be edible cooking lessons.”

Sherlock glares at John.

“Ice skating lessons?”

“Stupid.”

“Dancing,” John concludes. “He could learn dancing.”

“Why would Oliver need to know how to tango?” Sherlock asks disgustedly.

“He might want to woo someone someday. I’d like it if you knew how to tango, for instance.”

“We should create a winter wonderland,” Eames announces.

Arthur isn’t even surprised. This seems very Eamesian.

“In the indoor forest,” Eames continues.

That does make sense, Arthur thinks.  

“We can invite the local schools to come on field trips! The kids will love it!”

“Kids?” Arthur echoes. “If you’re inviting kids, you need to—”

“Have reindeer!” Eames exclaims. “And you can play Santa Claus.”

“No reindeer,” Arthur is saying, before he catches up to that. “And I’m not playing Santa Claus! You should play Santa Claus!”

“How can I play Santa Claus when you’re the jolly one?” Eames counters.

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The Doctor intends them to be festive. He finds self-jingling bells on the planet Bog and puts them up all over the TARDIS. Bells jingle all up and down the hallways.

Rose says, “It’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

The Doctor says, “The kids love it!”

The TARDIS adds helpful sound-proofing.

But it turns out the kids do not love it.

Fortuna says flatly, “Father Christmas is stalking us.”

Athena adds, “The jingle bells are surveillance.”

Brem continues, “We are living in a virtual police state.”

Rose says, “I see they were paying attention during your history lessons on totalitarianism.”  

3am is, in their tour-addled state, basically the middle of the afternoon. It’s when Pete is playing videogames or watching movies and Patrick is working, because he’s the responsible one.

Pete loves this, loves the middle of the night not being a fraught opportunity for insomnia, loves the wakeful company as the bus drives onward.

But this means his insomnia shifts to 8am, watching the clock tick, thinking of the show looming that night and how he should really sleep.

And then, Patrick is as comforting as if 8am were 3am, singing in his ear until they both fall asleep.

“It’s whimsical,” the reporter says of the show.

Pete wakes Patrick up in the middle of the night to say, “Is it whimsical?”

Patrick yawns. “It’s a journey through our past. It’s a little whimsical.”

“I used to be provocative! And thought-provoking! And edgy!”

“There’s a flying sheep, and you’re lifted into the air by bright balloons.”

Pete flops backward onto the bed, resigned to being whimsical.

“Anyway, you’ve always had whimsy. You came up with the sheep in the first place. And remember you used to say I was magic?”

“That’s not whimsy,” Pete denies. “That’s just the truth.”