AN: This is the first in a series of stories featuring an alternate 13th Doctor, whom I've dubbed the Othirteenth Doctor (Other+Thirteenth), based on Welsh actor Ioan Gruffudd. To read how this Doctor came into the world, check out my Alternate Twelfth Doctor Regeneration Scene. - DoctorAsh42

It was cold. It was always cold. Fresh snow began to fall from the clouds, despite the fact that the plough-droids had barely finished clearing the roads after the last fall three days ago. Sometimes George thought that the Weather Bureau was actually trying to bury them all in snow, that way the government wouldn't have to worry about their complaining anymore.

Still, George didn't have time to worry about the snow at that moment, he had more important things to focus on.

He ran through the cobblestone streets as fast as his little legs would carry him. Well-to-do passersby clad in the finest clothes that Snowglobe 1 had to offer, shrieked and yelled as he darted between them, pushing by where necessary. He heard good ladies and gents scoff and call him a cutpurse or an urchin. He heard at least one of them call for a constable, but he didn't care, this was a matter of life and death.

Then he saw it and he came to a stop, nearly sliding in the slushy snow. There it stood on the street corner: a big, blue box that said 'Police Public Call Box' on the top.

He ran up to the box and began knocking on the door. "Hello," he called out, "is the doctor in there?"

There was no answer. Truth be told, he felt a bit daft knocking on the doors of a little cabin such as that. It was clearly no hospital or doctor's surgery, but still, he'd been told that this was where he could find the best doctor in the universe.

He knocked again. "Hello, I'm looking for a doctor! Please!"

Still no answer. George was about to give up and leave when the doors flew open without notice and a man leaned out, his hand raised and holding onto the doorway.

"Who's there?" said the man, before bursting into a fit of giggles. "Sorry, inside joke. And my jokes are much bigger on the inside." He giggled again. "Sorry, that was another one."

George wasn't sure what to think of the man. He looked old - well, old to George at least. But to be fair, all grown-ups looked old to him and he counted grown-ups as anyone older than his big sister, who was fourteen.

He wore a dark, tattered coat and waistcoat, but no tie or cravat around his neck, which was an odd sight for a distinguished gentleman such as a doctor. He looked confused and slightly manic and George came to realise that he was obviously just an old drunk; a quack who'd probably been living in this old hut after losing his medical license.

Still, he didn't have a choice.

"Sir, are you a doctor?"

"Young man, I'm not just a doctor, I'm The Doctor! The original! The definite article, you might say." He shot his head up in realisation and then looked down and muttered, "Oh no, there I go again. Caught me by surprise, that one."

George couldn't believe that this was the man he was told to find.

"Sir, please, you must come with me right away!"

"Must I?" said The Doctor, genuinely confused. "Are you sure about that? Sorry, you see I'm still regenerating and my new brain hasn't settled down yet. It makes it very hard to remember what one must and must not do. Maybe I should start leaving notes for myself," he trailed off, muttering incoherently.

"Sir, it's my sister," said George, trying his level best to get the conversation back on track, "she's sick and she needs your help or else I fear she might die!"

"Well why didn't you say so!" shouted the man while crouching down and slapping both of George's shoulders. "If there's a life at stake then we really don't have time to be standing around dilly-dallying now, do we? You really must learn to get to the point boy, to be concise with your words, especially in moments of great crisis, such as this! Now come, let us away!"

The Doctor stepped out onto the street and immediately hugged his body and shivered. "Brrr! It is a bit chilly, isn't it? I'd best bundle up. Now, let's see..." he sucked a finger and held it up in the air. "Ah-ha, I'm getting a strong scent of 24th century, but with a heavy 19th century twist." His eyes sparkled and his mouth stretched into a grin. "I'll be right back," he said as he ran back through the doors."

"But sir, my sister!" yelled George.

"Don't worry, I'll be but a minute!" called The Doctor as the doors slammed shut.

An hour later The Doctor threw a purple frock coat on top of a large pile of clothing that had spread across a large portion of the Wardrobe Room's vast floor.

"No," he yelled as he threw a lime-green blazer shortly thereafter. "I need something regal; something dashing!" He held up a knitted vest covered in question marks, held it against his body briefly, as if he were entertaining the possibility of wearing it, then threw it away in disgust.

"No, no, no, no, no!" he yelled as he stormed over to the other side of the wardrobe. So far, the most he'd managed had been to change out of his old clothes and into a white, linen shirt with cuff-links and a wing collar and a pair of grey trousers, held up by a pair of button-on braces, covered in a red and grey diamond pattern.

"Ah-ha!" he exclaimed as he raced to a rack of waistcoats and pulled out a rather fetching purple number with a notched lapel and black horizontal zigzags running down it.

That's when the pieces really began to click into place. He strode over to some shelves of neckwear and began examining what the wardrobe had to offer. His last self hadn't been one for neckwear, but thankfully, it seemed as though that had been rectified.

His hand hovered over a collection of bow-ties for a moment, before moving on to a selection of cravats. He poked his tongue out in concentration, before settling on a purple one that matched his waistcoat.

Draping the cravat around his neck, he walked over to a mirror, where he caught himself by surprise.

"Good Lord, who are you? I demand to know how you got into my TARDIS! Oh," he said looking around, "is that me? Blimey."

He took a few steps closer, examining his new face in great detail. "Well, I cut a rather handsome figure, don't I?" he said turning his head so that he could see it from every angle. "It has a kind of roguish charm to it, doesn't it?" he said, rubbing the stubble of his chin. "And what's that accent, is that Welsh? About time, I suppose." He opened his mouth wide and began stretching and contorting his face in all manner of ways. "Yes. Yes, I think this will do quite nicely."

Satisfied, he returned to the matter of tying the cravat around his neck and fastened it in place with a golden dinosaur-shaped pin, which he procured from a small drawer.

Next he pulled on a pair of grey socks with burgundy diamonds on them. They were warm and snug – perfect! They were soon followed by a pair of brown, leather dress shoes, although it took him a moment to find his new shoe size. They were in turn covered by a pair of white cotton spats with black buttons.

"Right," he said, patting at his stomach, "what next?" He looked down at his waistcoat, where his hands were resting and smiled. "Of course!"

He walked over to a cabinet filled with small drawers – the same place that he'd retrieved his cravat pin and cuff-links from. The whole thing was filled with rings, watches and other jewellery, sparkling with gold and silver.

He spent a few moments browsing the contents of the cabinet before settling on a beautiful, antique silver pocket-watch with a double-Albert chain. He fastened the T-bar to his waistcoat and slipped the watch into one of his pockets. He fished out his TARDIS key from his trouser pocket, attached it to the other end of the chain and then slipped that into his other waistcoat pocket.

"Perfect," he said, patting the bulging shape of the watch. "Now..."

He skirted by the pile of discarded clothes on the floor and went to a rack of coats. He pulled out a grey frock coat with maroon piping on the lapels that matched his trousers and slipped it on.

"A perfect fit!" he said before moving to examine himself in the mirror. "Yes," he said, turning to each side, "the perfect look for the man about time."

He completed the look with a black top-hat with a burgundy band and then went over to a bucket by the door that contained all manner of canes, walking-sticks and umbrellas. He picked up an umbrella with a red question-mark handle, shook his head and then put it back down. Then he picked up a brown, twisted, wooden walking-stick, tested its strength for a bit, but then returned that too. Finally, he settled on a simple black dress cane with a silver orb on top.

He leaned on it to test it out and then gave it a twirl. "Excellent!"

But then he remembered just how could it was outside, so he started looking for something that would keep him warm. He picked up a long, multi-coloured scarf and stared at it for the longest time, like he was in a dilemma. After much deliberation he returned the scarf and said, "Sorry old girl, not this time."

Then he saw a black Inverness cape and grabbed onto it with great eagerness. "Oh, now it's been a while since I've worn one of these," he said excitedly.

He pulled the cape on and then walked back to the mirror and examined himself in his full glory, striking a very regal pose. "Excellent!" he said. "After all, what's the point in being a Time Lord if you're not going to dress like one?"

Suddenly, his eyes bulged as if he'd just remembered something terribly important. "The child!" he yelled. He raced out of the wardrobe, grabbing an old black, leather medical bag along the way.

He practically slid back into the console room and slammed into the console, striking a series of buttons and then slamming down a lever. The TARDIS gave a shuddering sound, like it was trying to take off, but then settled back down.

Technically, performing a temporal displacement wasn't a wise thing to do, but The Doctor had thought it the best way for him to be afforded the time to change into something better suited to his new personality, while not wasting any of this dying girl's time. Essentially, the interior dimensions of the TARDIS had been shunted back to an earlier point – the point at which he'd first raced back into the ship. This meant that when he opened those doors, it would be an hour into the past and nobody on the outside would have noticed a thing.

He'd only done it once before and for much the same reason, after his third regeneration. He only hoped that this boy would be more impressed than the Brigadier had been.

"Ta-da!" said The Doctor, bursting out of the TARDIS' doors, hat in one hand, cane in the other and arms held out like a great showman. "What do you think?"

"Yes, yes, much better," said the boy, "now please sir, come with me!" With that, he ran back into crowded streets.

"Really?" sighed The Doctor. "Does nobody appreciate showmanship anymore?"

With that, he picked up his medical bag, locked the TARDIS behind him and ran out after the boy.

Walter Matheson breathed into his hands and rubbed them together, trying to keep them warm. He knew that it was pointless, but it was almost a reflex at this point.

He was a well-built man in his fifties, with skin the colour of charcoal. He was crouching down in a small alleyway with snow banked up all around him. He looked up at the fresh flakes that were beginning to fall and shuddered, his ragged clothes offering very little protection against the cold.

Slowly, he stood up, his joints aching and creaking all the way. He'd have to find some shelter if he wanted to survive another night of snowfall.

"Damn Weather Bureau," he muttered.

Then he felt something bite the back of his neck and he immediately smacked it. He looked at his gloved palm but couldn't see anything.

"Mosquitoes?" he said confused.

Then he felt another bite, on his face this time. He smacked his cheek, but still he couldn't see any evidence of what was attacking him. He looked up and all around him, but there was nothing to be seen in the air besides the steadily falling snow.

"Ouch!" he yelled as he felt another bite, much more painful than the previous two.

"Ouch!" there was another one.

And another...

And another...

Soon he was gritting his teeth and groaning in pain as he felt hundreds of little bites dancing all over his body. He spun around patting himself all over, but he couldn't stop it.

Panicking, he ripped his coat off and threw it to the ground, then his shirt. Soon, he was completely naked and exposed there in the cold, but he barely even noticed because of all the pain.

He kept smacking at his skin until he realised something in disbelief. The snow: it was sticking to his skin. Not only that, it was slowly covering him.

He screamed as he tore at the snow, but every handful of powder that he wrenched away, was quickly replaced by more of its kind.

He dropped to his knees, driven down by pain, exhaustion and the sheer weight of the snow. Then he was on all fours, his face the only part of him still exposed.

He screamed in agony, but was quickly cut off as the snow began to slide into his mouth and down his throat.

There was nothing left of Walter Matheson, just a grotesque snowman, frozen in terror. But soon that was also gone, as the form inside the snow vanished and the snow burst into a puff of powder, drifting to the ground below.