John roamed around Super-Victorian London for a couple of hours, running on pure enthusiasm. Their force fields held back the putrid atmosphere and pumped refined oxygen into the streets.
But enthusiasm and raw oxygen can only keep a man high for so long. After the couple of hours his feet swelled up and his syndrome had him shaking. A visit to hospital was no good; language had so mutated that he couldn’t communicate, and as best he understood the nurses were unimpressed with his lack of an ID chip. Either that or they refused to service anyone who didn’t wear retro-Renaissance gear.
So he returned to the street with his faded Inu Yasha t-shirt and sat on the corner. He didn’t beg; it seemed these Super-Victorians pumped nutrients into their oxygen currents and he was left with a perpetually mildly sated belly. Less than a day with time travel, and John was doing what he would have done had he stayed in his present: sitting and thinking about weird things that would make no sense to anyone around him.