This chapter is mainly just focused on Twelve, and won't be introducing Sarah Jane yet. It'll be for background context, and to see the depths of the Doctor. Spoilers for season 10.
~o0o~
1931. It held a special place in the Doctor's hearts. Was there any actual reason? Truth be told, yes. Mainly, it was because that 1931 happened to be the year the electric guitars came out.
A loud thrumming could be heard, echoing across the dank walls of what seemed to be a musty basement. A tall, dark man could be seen in a cheap white lawn chair. His long, bushy white hair looked wind-swept enough that it was obvious he had gone places. He was wearing a maroon corduroy blazer over a black and white suit, and sunglasses concealed his eyes from the outside, but certainly not from the inside. His left leg was rested on top of his right. He thrummed his fingers against a black-and-white guitar, an electric one at that, and the instrument protruded its sound.
Despite the guitar's rock-style tunes, the music it made was light and nostalgic. It was hard to tell the emotion upon his face as it had been hidden cleverly, but one could easily tell his sorrow. How? Well, the man played slowly, as if breathing in every note, breathing it in as if it were a last breath, not his own but a close friend's.
He was sitting next to a very peculiar door. Door, was it? It was round and large and had small little lights here and there and an intricate design around it. Must've been a vault of some sort. The old man looked up, his mouth ever so slightly open, but not out shock or confusion or anything of the sort. It was quite difficult to tell what it came out of.
The man was staring at the 'vault' door, his sunglasses covering whatever emotion might've been behind them. He let out a sigh and began to play again, starting the tune over once more. "Do you think... I should play live?" he then asked in a Scottish accent, to no-one in particular- at least it seemed as much- his eyes still on the strings of his guitar, not playing anymore but instead examining the stick end of the instrument and fiddling ever so slightly with the strings up top.
There was silence as his answer, so he nodded. "I don't suppose you would like one?" the man spoke again, who had stopped fiddling with the strings and was looking up at the vault door again. Again, no reply. He gave a short smile and the breath of a chuckle, but nothing more.
"Then how about a piano?" he murmured. "Yes, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" the man said again, even though it seemed there was no response. "Maybe if you behave," he added, then went back to playing.
There were a lot of memories lost in his head now, all of them containing a good friend. He only knew the name now, after his memory was wiped. Clara, yes. That was the name of his song.
Clara.