Warnings for references to violence, grief, sickness.

Also, just a clarification since this is in second person: this is not an interactive fic. "You" = Sherlock in this story, not the reader.

On the first day of your second chance at life, he brings you a nectarine. You are a charcoal study of your former, full-color self, a long mass of thin bones slung across the sofa. Blue silk and dark wool forsaken for the crimson chiaroscuro of hiding and hunting.

Broth: too bitter; toast: too rough. Fruit: soft, easy to digest. It won't hurt you, he says (as I hurt you, you think).

Juice drips from your chin, splatters to the floor, a patch of salt-stained, water-damaged wood:

Observe. Deduce. The starburst pattern.
Dark & smooth vs. bleached & scarred.
Tears falling through his hands. A daily meditation.

He sits beside you now, wipes your face with a damp cloth. His doctor's hands heal your sickness, his soldier's body trembles with anger, his mourner's eyes fill with tears. His cries are bitten-off breaths, little chunks of grief, bruised and over-ripe. You suck the flesh down to the bare stone.

On the second day, it is cantaloupe. Coral orange and cold, wrapped in paper-thin slices of his sorrow. The soft underbelly of his soul sliced away, seasoned and cured with two years of salt. With each slice he hands you, a question:

Why did you leave me? Where did you go?
Were you always alone?

You chew gingerly, a smear of sickly indigo on your jaw from his fist. You let the fruit melt on your tongue, creamy and rich. Everywhere. Nowhere.

You set the craggy, empty half-moons, gnawed to the rind, on the table. You do not look at your own hands. Yes. Always.

Oranges on the third day—pebbled skin stripped skillfully by his strong hands. Pith peeled down to the red, fragile flesh (so easy to draw its blood, you think, a slip of the hand / a twist of the knife).

He gives sections to you, takes some for himself, asks again: who what when where why how, peel and repeat, peel and repeat. You eat everything, sweet pulp and bitter seeds and all. It tastes of lonely deserts & violin solos & the breaths between life and death.

His voice, once bubbling like sparkling cider, now flat and lifeless. His anger, jarred like peppers in vinegar, transforming into something sharp and acidic. His pain, edged with essential minerals, bright and alive in your mouth. You can't take much at first, your cramped soul filled to bursting. But you take little bites when you can, accept his long silences & quiet breaths & morsels of sudden sun in his hands. You swallow all he gives you, and when you are full, you ask for more.

AN: This is for my dear friend, Mirith Griffin, who knows the meaning of an orange. Thank you for everything (and for the title of this piece).

Thanks also to Aderyn, whose spirit infused this work. Thank you for your writing thoughts.