He lay flat on his back; he didn't dare open his eyes. Who knew where he'd ended up... Was he dead? Perhaps he'd regenerated... the enormous pain his in face suggested that this was not the case. He silently hoped that the impact hadn't damaged his features... but maybe his nose was smaller now? Or his chin reshaped by the hit? He raised an arm to his face, his fingers poked at his nose and felt along his jaw line slowly. There was no face shift and he'd definitely not regenerated, which meant there was no chance that he was about to wake up from this ordeal and suddenly be Ginger.
"I've always wanted to be Ginger," he groaned with a whisper. His fingers felt for the small bundle of material under the collar of his shirt, "Cool," he smiled straightening the bow tie fondly. His hand reached suddenly up to hover inches above his head, his fingers just tickling his hair, "... plenty of time to get a fez," he reassured himself before opening his eyes and sitting bolt upright. Looking around he allowed his eyes to adjust to the dim amber lighting. Hallow eyes greeted him, staring blankly out of an 18th Century ceramic masquerade mask. The Doctor frowned at it in disbelief, sitting there on the shelf beside him. He reached forward gently curling his fingers around it and lifting it from its dusty resting place. Turning it over in his hands he raised his head to look around the cabin he'd found himself in. All four walls of the tiny cabin had shelves lining them. The Doctor recognised many of the displayed items; some were protected by glass cases while others were held proudly on stands. A Slitheen collar, arm of a Cyberman, damaged Dalek eye stalk, cracked Santa mask, Ood speech ball... the list was endless, and that's when he saw it. It was small but in perfect condition, he stretched his hand out towards the small seemingly meaningless piece of plastic lying on the mahogany shelf across from him. It was a communicator, exactly the same as the ones worn by the archaeologists in the library. In a sudden rush he padded himself down in search of his screwdriver. His hands darted in and out of each of his pockets in turn, it was gone. He leapt up in panic looking frantically around. His eyes finally fell on it, sat neatly on the small fold out table beside the bed on which he had been laying; a wave of relief washed over him. He snatched it up quickly, testing it with a press of the button. Holding it against the communicator he examined the dead neural relay inside. The result on his screwdriver was clear, it was River's.
"That's mine," a voice interrupted him before he could process the overwhelming sights before him. The Doctor looked up; the small open doorway was now obstructed by an old, greying, stubbly man. He wore a dirty faded orange and black checked shirt with equally as dirty blue denim dungarees. In his hand he held a small circular wooden tray with a single steaming hot mug of coffee stood in the centre. His green eyes narrowed on the Doctor.
"Where did you get all of this?" the Doctor asked suspiciously indicating to the shelves of items around them.
"I'm a collector... Space junk is all... there aint no law against it," the man replied gruffly, "What's it to you?"
"Where did you get this?" the Doctor demanded holding up River's communicator.
"Got it in some old library... got stuck in there for near one hundred years... figure I better get something for my trouble... aint no one allowed in there no more... rare artefact now that is"
"What would you trade for this?" the Doctor held tightly onto the communicator.
"What you got in mind?"
The Doctor rummaged through his pockets pulling out a whole manner of contraptions. A wind up mouse, UV hand light, torch, yoyo, chunk of Tardis...
"I want that," the man demanded pointing to the Doctor's screwdriver.
"Well you can't... it's mine"
"Well that's mine and you can't have that neither then," he snatched the communicator out of the Doctor's hands and stuffed it firmly into the pouch on the front of his dungarees. The Doctor sighed in exasperation shaking his head as he gathered up his useless items from the bed. He noticed the light coming in from behind the curtains; he pulled them open.
"When did the lights come back on?"
"When the alarm went at the end of lock down," the man shrugged.
"So... everyone can leave their homes?"
"You didn't listen to the rules anyway..."
"Yes... alright... but it's safe now?"
"Yeah"
The Doctor paced backwards and forwards in the small space. His jacket swayed after him, his boots thudded on the hard wooden floor. There was lots that needed to be done here and he was still no closer to achieving anything. There'd been no imprints on the homes of the people who had been lost. He'd been unable to lure the... whatever it was... into any sort trap. He needed desperately to somehow steal River's neural relay from the man stood before him.
"Wait... how did you save me?"
"You ran into the side of my house... you think I'd just stay inside and not check it out?"
"But... how did we get away alive?"
"Why wouldn't we get away alive?" the man shrugged setting the tray down on the bed. He reached into his pockets casually pulling out a pack of cigarettes. Putting one into his mouth he patted himself down replacing the packet as he did so, "Help us out here..." he said leaning towards the Doctor. Reluctantly the Doctor pointed his screwdriver at the tip of the cigarette, lighting it with a sharp press of the button; he frowned as he tucked it away in his jacket pocket. The man took a long satisfied drag on the white little stick before exhaling a huge cloud of smoke, "Do you believe in ghosts...? ... Time Lord...?"