Well hey there, I've been away for a bit. I've seen your reviews and I hear you! I just really suck in the motivation and commitment department wheeze. Here's a slightly longer chapter because I'm guilty. Reviews make me feel so much better about my writing honestly-

~o0o~

Bored. The Doctor was bored. He sat in his black swivel chair, leaning over the dark wooden desk. Bright sunlight streamed through the large windows behind him, so there was no need for artificial light. He appeared to be writing something, his face overcast in shadow. It was clear he had a frown on, however. Very clear. The Doctor wore a frown as vibrant as his fashion choice, after all.

His lectures were nice and all, but when you couldn't mix it up for these many years it got... stale. He needed something new. Something fun and exciting. For a moment he paused and glanced up at the old blue box, standing untouched in the corner. She must be bored too. But both of them knew they could not run away together, no matter how tempting it was or how naughty they both were. He didn't need Nardole scolding him, his nagging voice in his ear comparable to a small dog nipping at one's ankles.

So what could he do to relieve such boredom, a feeling of which he despised the most out of any?

He resorted to scanning the room for possible ideas. He had decorated the place quite averagely. Had to seem boring himself in order to fit in with the crowd. The cup of his old sonics... the pictures of family... memories, one must hold them dear. Is it in fear, that one holds them, that these memories should fade? Possibly. Perhaps it simply helps the loss of those memories being no longer present. Or both.

But he couldn't ponder on that. He reflected on his past enough throughout his timeless lifespan- he needed a spark of hope. A dash of adventure, a place to run again. Some object to accompany him along such a riskful journey, such as...

The old man's eyes landed on the smooth, shiny shape of an electric guitar. It was leaning against the wall, black fabric strap draped gently over the tightly held strings. It sat there, patient, waiting to be brushed yet again by a strumming hand. He stood up abruptly, the chair he sat in not moments ago being shoved backward. His eyes remained on the instrument. There was an idea, idle on the floor. Should he take it?

Of course he should. It was an opportunity for a shift in routine, something he definitely needed.

For a moment the Doctor did not move, his sharp gaze fixed on the guitar. But then he wheeled around towards the picture frames that smiled at him on the desk. "What do you think?" he asked suddenly, focusing on the black-and-white picture of a young girl. Susan... his granddaughter. Instead of sorrowful as one might expect, however, he appeared almost excited.

Then he glanced at the other picture on the opposite side. An older woman, in color, with bright shining hair that took up most of the photo. It was wild and curly and ablaze. "Should I do it?" he asked the picture as if it would respond. He twirled around, taking a couple steps back from the desk, then ended his spin facing the same direction he was before.

"It's not against the rules," he stated, "It's not... breaking the promise." Was he trying to convince someone else or convince himself, or was he just talking aloud simply to talk?

"You know what, I will," he extended his arm fully, pointing at the blue police box in the corner. "I will, I'll do it. Watch me." This was a flicker of hope he hadn't had in a while, being here in this university, doing lectures, grounded with an annoying toddler cyborg. He could change things up, mix up the box of trail mix, who knows what you'll put out next? An M&M, a pretzel? He should do this more often. Life under-promise didn't have to be so dreadfully uneventful. Not all the time.

With that, the Twelfth Doctor raced out of his office, not before he grabbed his coat and slid it on with such swift ease it was clear this was nowhere near the first time he had done that. He had a job interview to go to.

"I'd like to apply as a performer here," the Doctor informed a red-haired woman, who appeared to be in her mid-40s. Her hair was on the shorter side, cut at the shoulder. She had a subtly wrinkled face, but it was kind... very librarian-like, honestly. The Doctor smiled down at her, his electric guitar strapped around his shoulder and waste. The woman nodded. "You're just in time, we were about to end applications for today here in half an hour," she smiled and chuckled lightheartedly. "Over here, let's sit." She directed him into a room farther in the building they were in. It was a very cozy-looking place, the walls dark brown wood. In the center of the room was a diagonal rug on the hardwood floor and two comfy sofa chairs facing each other. There was a tall floor lamp next to one of them, this one of which the woman sat. The Doctor lowered himself into the other one.

"Guitarist, then?" she stated the obvious, gesturing with a wave of her hand at the electric guitar. The Doctor nodded. "Yes," he answered, then situated the instrument on his lap to where he could easily and comfortably play it. "Alright, show me what you got," she sat back expectantly, her speckled hands resting on her lap.

The old man looked down at the strings, then reached over to plug the guitar into his sound system. He had brought it with him, just in case. He had found out they had their own that they were open to sharing, but he trusted his the most.

So, as it connected, and he adjusted the instrument to his pleasures, he started to play.

It wasn't any particular tune. Well, not at first. He just strummed it, perhaps testing it out to see if it needed to be adjusted. But it seemed to be fine. The unaimed strumming smoothly transitioned into a melody. One he knew well, by heart. Every time he played it, the flash of forgotten memories invaded his mind. Of incomplete memories, ones that he remembered yet at the same time... not quite. There was a piece missing, there was always a piece missing, and this, this sound he formed on the guitar, was the only thing available to clasp onto said lost piece.

He played it almost absentmindedly, just something that came to him like a scent on a breeze. A scent he could never really place. He was not aware of the middle-aged woman's reaction until he had ended his playing.

Speaking of, she had been listening without comment, nodding her head subtly as she leaned closer. She had never heard that song before. It sounded sad, yet hopeful, full of emotion behind it. It was perfect.

Once the Doctor looked up at the woman again, she smiled and clapped thrice. "Wonderful," she complimented, rising to her feet. The Doctor did the same, unplugging the guitar from the sound system. "Absolutely wonderful. I'll let you come in on Tuesday, then we can talk more later," she told him, reaching her hand over to shake it with him.

The Doctor blinked, surprised. "That fast?" He reached his hand out to shake nonetheless. "Well, we are a pub, and I'm the owner. No need to wait longer than you have to," she chuckled. "What do we call you?"

The curly-haired man paused for a moment, then said with a smile, "John Smith. But you can call me Doctor."