Harold didn't open the binder until the next morning. After his encounter with the Doctor, he'd gone straight home and taken two sleeping pills with a glass of seltzer water. He knew he'd have to remember, but he wasn't ready, not just yet.
The morning light was offensively cheerful as Harold fought his way out of his sleeping-pill-induced stupor. He opened his closet and pulled out a plain white shirt and a pair of khaki trousers, unconsciously replicating the uniform of his boyhood. He put on his glasses and combed his hair, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He looked the same as always, but he felt different. No amount of rationalization could make him forget the Doctor or the blue box, not any more. Before he could stop himself, he smiled.
"I'm taking a personal day, Nathan." He tried to keep his voice from being uncharacteristically buoyant on the phone, but he couldn't help it.
"Are you all right, Harold?" His partner was well justified in asking; Harold hadn't missed a day of work in three years."
"I'm—I'm fine." It was totally true.
Harold took out his leather satchel and filled it with the Doctor's binder, a thermos of coffee, and a bag with a peanut butter sandwich. And a flashlight. He wouldn't need a flashlight, of course, but something in him wanted to bring one just the same.
He stepped outside into the New York morning and found that his feet carried him to the small park at the end of the street. It wasn't much of a park, really, with its single tree, ancient swingset, and lone wooden bench, but it was a slice of nature in the middle of the city.
Harold sat down, determined to work, but he was immediately distracted by the excited squeals of a little girl on the swings and the dance of a tiny butterfly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd really looked at things.
What are you doing, Finch? he asked himself, but instead of a stern, adult reply, he heard the voice of a child in his head. I'm observing, because the details are the most important. Chastened, Harold sat quietly and let the music of bird songs and car horns and human voices wash over him.
After a long while, he opened the binder. Of course. As he'd known it would, it contained everything he needed to finish the Machine, all the things he and Nathan had tried to figure out and missed, all the components that had never existed before. All that remained was for him to build it.
But why? Why would the Doctor use his last days to deliver such a thing? Harold remembered him as a protector, a healer, a guide, but he had been no friend of tyranny or the loss of personal freedom.
No, if the Doctor had entrusted such a thing to him, then the reason must be something more. Harold couldn't, for the life of him, figure out what it was. But he didn't mind. He was beginning to realize that uncertainty wasn't as dreadful as he'd made it out to be.
Harold went home in the late afternoon, feeling curiously light. He lay on the large sofa in his living room and let his eyes close, finally allowing the memories to wash over him. He saw a shy boy with spectacles who loved to fight the trees in his backyard with a wooden sword, and his heart ached for the dreams that boy had dreamed. He saw the Doctor, older and younger at the same time, a beautiful, dark-haired girl, and a wild Scotsman. He felt the boy's fear and joy as he was swept away into an adventure that no one in the world would ever believe. Finally, as the dawn of memory turned to dusk, he felt the boy's mingled grief and pride as the timelord said goodbye. He'd grown taller, that summer, in heart if not in stature.
When Harold sat up, he and the boy were one and the same. The Doctor might be preparing to die, but Harold Finch had come back to life.