Disclaimer: Don't own it.
Rating: K
Okay, so this story popped into my head after pounding at the piano, practicing Moonlight Sonata, although the idea of muscle memory erased had been a niggling idea before that. It's been written for a while, and I decided to just publish it.
Also, I just realized – I got the order wrong. It's supposed to be: Meet Amelia, five-minute hop to the future (which turns out to be twelve years), THEN the TARDIS changes. I made the TARDIS change before the five minute/twelve year hop. Oops. Please don't let that get in the way of you enjoying the story.
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Chapter One: Muscle Memory
The Doctor watched the TARDIS's brand-new rotor pump up and down within the console's central column. Cautiously, he lifted his hands from the switches. Everything remained steady.
He grinned, relieved. True, the reason he'd told Amelia to wait was that the TARDIS had to be broken in a bit, but the other was more important – every time he regenerated, he was afraid he'd lost the knack for flying his beloved ship. New body, new cravings, new thoughts…new flying techniques. He'd rather she was alone than dead. A seven-year-old incinerated by the TARDIS's burning wreckage and debris. He shuddered at the thought.
He remained there a minute, hypnotized by the smooth motion of the rotor. Up, down. Up, down. He kind of missed the more organic theme of the TARDIS – Coral – but his tastes had changed, he supposed. The TARDIS knew him better than he knew himself. And, in a way, he felt a sort of joy, sweeping his gaze across the orderly chaos. Yes, the TARDIS had gotten it right. She never failed.
He decided to give himself the grand tour of the newly renovated rooms. The hallways were different, the kitchen was different – ah, good, the tea was still in the same place. Then he entered a room he hadn't seen for a while – it was dubbed simply the Piano Room, with simple décor, and a single, solitary piano in the center.
"Oh, look at you," he said. He couldn't remember the last time he'd played. Did this new form like playing piano? No better time to find out.
He touched a key, and its smooth steady voice rang through the TARDIS.
Yes – he'd play Moonlight Sonata. Beethoven was a genius. A bit annoying to be around, given that you had to repeat everything five times before he'd hear it, but his music was amazing. And the Doctor, who'd heard pretty much every composer in history, didn't use the term 'amazing' lightly.
He played a few measures – and stumbled. The wrong note completely jarred the smooth, steady calm of the room. He blinked, playing the stanza again. He made the same mistake.
How could he be making a mistake there? He'd practiced that line, and practiced it, relentlessly pounding it into his fingers – oh.
Oh.
The total loss of muscle memory was a side effect of regeneration. He groaned. He'd practiced that particular line again, and again, and he'd felt so proud when he'd nailed it. Now he'd have to practice it again. Damnation.
He wondered if he remembered how to ride a bike.
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