Okay, maybe he cared more than he liked to admit. Maybe there was a tiny piece in his —presumably nonexistent— heart that cared a big deal for you.

That night you opened Baker Street’s door, hanging your head low and tears rolling down your cheeks, wetting your neck.

He looked at you from his chair for a second, taking in the broken expression on your face and your light sobs. He furrowed his eyebrows and stared at you.

“Who did this to you?”