Turning over in his thin blanket to relieve his aching back and warm his frosty side, he knew this park bench wasn't any good at all for sleeping on. But he had to try to get some sleep or else he would miss the morning traffic at his regular begging spot. He sighed in defeat, his breath frosting on the breeze as his crooked back painfully protested his attempts to drift off into a fitful sleep. A sound tickled his ear, so faint he was hardly sure he hadn't imagined it, but then he heard it again a moment later, louder now as though approaching from far away. His eyes popped open in alarm as it was hear a third time, growing to alarming volume as if it were much nearer than he had expected based on its previously soft rumbling. Sitting up with haste, he winced and grabbed his back which wrenched against the exertion, but he pried one eye open to glance around the dimly lit London streets for the source of the now thundering, unearthly growl which drew ever nearer.
By the time he had looked about himself, blinked, rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, blinked again and looked about himself again, the sound had disappeared, leaving him again alone in the night. He was about to question his own mental stability until he noticed blue booth labeled "Police Box" which he was sure hadn't been there when he came to the park bench, or much any other time he had slept at this park bench. He didn't have much time to think on it, because the door opened, allowing an animatedly chatting pair to step out onto the walk and then into the street.
..."So, has it ever happened?" The first one asked, turning as he walked to face his companion. He was a black man of average height with a shaved head and face. He wore remarkably odd clothing, as though from some other unidentifiable culture.
..."Has what ever happened?" The other replied, shutting the door of the police box behind him. He was taller, though only slightly, and white with dark hair and more respectable clothing. He wore a proper suit and coat, complete with leather shoes and a tie. He seemed a man of high standing, judging by his attire and his stature. Likely some professor at a university, or a lawyer, or some doctor.
..."Have you ever met another incarnation of yourself?" The first man answered, causing the man on the bench quite a stir of confusion and for his cold, meager supper to turn in his stomach uncomfortably.
..."No," The other man answered, surprisingly unsurprised by the question, "Or if I have, then I have better sense than to let myself know that I have. You can't ever interact with your past self. Ever."
..."But what if it's your future self and not your past self?" The question made the man at the bench reach for his treasured bottle of Irish whiskey and turn it up on end above his mouth, only to find much less remaining in the bottle than he was hoping to squeeze down his throat.
..."I am my past self to my future self," The other man explained, "My future self would never willingly interact with me for the same reason I would never intentionally interact with my past self."
..."But what if you didn't know it was you? I mean, you look completely different each time you regenerate. So what if you didn't recognize yourself?"
The man at the park bench was so confounded that his practiced drinking habits slipped and the alcohol stung the back of his throat and its vapors burned his sinuses, making him cough violently and uncontrollably, sucking air desperately to clear his throat and nose for breathing.
..."Hello, there!" The man in the suit and coat called out to him, having heard him coughing, "Beautiful evening, if a bit nippy. Are you, uh," he paused, eyebrows furrowed to analyze the sight of the man on the park bench before him, "... Are you planning to stay out here all night? You might catch yourself a death of cold."
Coughing as he tried to clear his raw throat to speak and grabbing his miserably few possession into his arms, he answered, "Just leaving, actually," and then he got to his feet and staggered off into the night at a shockingly rapid pace.
..."What do you reckon his problem was?" Conner asked.
..."I dunno," the Doctor answered, shaking his head and lifting his shoulders, "Not a clue."
..."So Doctor, what are we here for?"
..."Uh-" The Doctor looked around at the buildings and the sky for a moment and said, "December thirty first, eighteen ninety nine… and it’s eleven o’clock in the evening!"
..."New year’s eve?" Conner observed quizzically.
..."Top notch, Conner!" The Doctor replied enthusiastically. Conner grimaced uncomfortably back at him. The Doctor winced in agreement and said, "Yeah, I guess that one wasn’t so great, either. Ah! Here we are."
..."Here we are what, Doctor?" Conner asked as the Doctor walked up to a street lamp and removed an advertisement from it.
Holding the parchment next to his face, Conner could see an announcement of a New Year’s Eve party, boldly entitled, as the Doctor read aloud to him, "The Party of the Century!"
