Author's note: Hey all! This story takes place at the end of season 3, episode 8 "Entrada." Happy reading!
When Olivia woke again it was to find Agent Broyles knocking on the doorframe of her hospital room. She cracked her eyes open.
"Come in," she said. Broyles sat down in the chair Peter had vacated while Olivia slept.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"I've been worse," she said hoarsely. "Walternate was going to have me killed. Considering the alternative, I feel great." Olivia cracked a wry smile.
Broyles pursed his lips, apparently preoccupied with something but unwilling to burden Olivia with it.
"What?" she asked finally. "Is she still here?"
"No," Broyles said. "She escaped with a crucial part of the machine."
"I was supposed to take her place," Olivia said abruptly, trying to prop herself up on her elbows. With a hiss of pain, she fell back into the pillows. Her breath caught in her throat as her wide eyes sought out his. "Who?"
Broyles didn't quite meet her eyes, and Olivia was filled with sudden dread.
"Me," Broyles said quietly.
Olivia swallowed hard. When she spoke again, her voice was tempered by grief. "There's this idea that everyone over there is evil, but he was . . . a good man. Not unlike yourself. Sir."
Broyles nodded and stood. "I just stopped by to see how you were doing. Peter should be back soon." He paused at the door and turned back. "Dunham?"
"Yes?"
"I don't want to see you back until next week," Broyles said. "You've been through a lot. More than any of us have a right to expect from you."
"Thank you, sir," Olivia said wearily.
Olivia slept through much of the next two days. She was feeling much better by the time Astrid and Walter came to visit again.
"Hey Astrid," she said. She was sitting up eating butterscotch pudding. Walter's eyes lit up. Smiling, Olivia handed him the cup of pudding.
While Walter was occupied with her pudding cup, Olivia addressed Astrid. "I need you to find someone for me."
"Alright," Astrid said, her brow furrowed.
"His name is Henry Higgins," Olivia said in a low voice. "He may live at 3248 Hastings Avenue, Apartment 3, New York. Possibly married to a Jasmine Higgins, with a daughter. Laura."
Astrid nodded. "I'll see what I can do."
When Olivia walked into the lab the next morning, she found Astrid sitting at her desk on her laptop. She looked up as the door clicked shut.
"Any luck?" Olivia asked, coming to stand behind Astrid.
"Too much luck," Astrid said. "There are over a hundred men named Henry Higgins in New York City, but none of them are married to a Jasmine Higgins. Can you narrow it down any more?"
Olivia bit her lip. "Blood type, B negative."
Astrid turned back to the computer screen. "Well, that will help."
"Also, can you expand the search to include rehab and correctional facilities along the East Coast?"
Astrid furrowed her brow and glanced at Olivia. "Olivia, what is this about?"
"It's important, Astrid," Olivia said urgently. "Please."
Astrid's fingers flew over the keyboard. "Well, here's something," she said. "There's a Henry Higgins in a rehab center in Maryland. African-American, blood type . . . B negative." She angled the computer so Olivia could see. "Is that him?"
The photo was nearly identical to the one on the alternate Henry's show-me, but this world's Henry had hooded eyes and a defeated bent to his mouth.
"You know, a few years ago, I was in a bad way. Couldn't pull myself out. Inside, I knew I was somebody else. There's only one person who believed that . . ." Olivia could hear Henry's words in her head as though she was still sitting in the back of his cab. "'Sometimes you just got to believe what you can't see.'"
"What?" Astrid asked, confused.
"Do you have an address for him?"
"Of course." Astrid scribbled the address of the rehab facility down on a scrap of paper.
"If Walter and Peter come in before I come back, let them know I've gone to see Broyles. I'm ready to come back, Astrid. But first, there's something I need to do."
"Okay," Astrid said to an empty lab.
Each day at the Baltimore Regional Addiction Rehabilitation Center was the same. Henry supposed it was for the best; without the mind-numbing routine of it, he might lapse back into his old habits. Chaos was the catalyst for his addiction – Henry had turned to drugs to be able to garner some semblance of control over his life. When he was jacked up, he could just give in to the sensation of being outside of himself. It was an easy escape, a way not to feel, until he returned to reality and the weight of the world came crashing down.
Henry had been clean for three months here in Baltimore. A few more and he might get out, find a job and get back on track. But even to him it seemed to be a temporary fix. Chances were he would be back here or someplace worse by the year's end. Henry smirked to himself as he held out his bowl for a ladleful of oatmeal. The trouble with routine – it gave one too much time to think. He pushed away such thoughts and sat down to eat.
The counselors were making their morning rounds, distributing medication, mail, and miscellany. Henry paid little mind; he wasn't on medication at the moment, and no one on the outside had sent him mail, except a card from his sister on his birthday. So Henry was more than a little surprised when a counselor set a small envelope down beside his breakfast tray.
"You've got mail, Henry," she said pleasantly, her blond ponytail bouncing as she walked away. She was new – had to be. No one stayed that perky in this place for long, not even the staff.
Henry picked up the envelope with trembling fingers. It bore no return address, but it had been postmarked in Boston. Henry didn't know anyone in Boston.
It was a blank card, something generic and cheerful one would buy at Hallmark, the front a stock photograph of daisies and sunshine.
There is a better man inside of you, it read, and I believe in him. There was no signature.
A chill ran up his spine as Henry looked around the room, then a warmth started to spread from the pit of his stomach. This mystery card held the deepest secret Henry had – he knew he was someone else, someone better than the sum of his addiction and mistakes. But no one else had believed him, or believed in him. Until now.
He kept the card in the pocket of his shirt until his release.
A year later, Henry Higgins was a cab driver in New York City. Clean and sober.