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The warehouse was empty now except for one makeup artist’s assistant, one prop assistant, three cameramen, and Guy.It was Christmas Eve and they were supposed to have wrapped yesterday, but Robert wasn’t happy with his performance in one particularly emotional scene and had asked the director if they could stay behind to try a few more takes.Being almost as much of a perfectionist as his star, Ritchie had agreed, sending most of the crew home and retaining only a skeleton of the shoot’s former size.Although Susan was a producer on the film, she too had left Toronto early to be with her parents for Hanukkah and to tend to a slightly under-the-weather baby Exton.Feeling guilty about keeping his personal assistant by his side unnecessarily, Robert had told Jimmy to go home, too.The big man had protested at first, always eager to stick by his boss and friend for moral support if not for practical and safety reasons.Once he had finally agreed to leave “Sherlock” to his own devices, Jimmy had parted with a statement that clearly revealed his trepidation:“Don’t get into any trouble.”

Putting up with one last swipe of a makeup brush before starting the scene, Robert tried to get his mind focused on his character.Watson was missing, presumed dead, because his supposed best friend had sent him running into Moriarty’s trap.Holmes was feeling more than just guilty—he was suicidal, la Riggs in Lethal Weapon, coming apart at the seams.Watson was the glue that held him together—like Susan was for Robert. Without him, Sherlock was a mess.

“Ready, Robert?” Guy called from the sidelines.

Robert pulled at the cuffs of his dirty, frilly white shirt.“Yep.”

“Take twelve.Rolling.”

He strode over to the window seat of his junk-piled room, picked up his violin, and sat down heavily.With a desolate sigh, Holmes started to play a mournful tune.Robert couldn’t really play the violin—not well, anyway—but he wanted the intensity of his playing to show on film.He pushed harder and harder with the bow, sawing into the instrument as though he wanted to kill it.Halfway through the piece (which was playing off-set so that Robert could mimic the movements in time to the actual song), the camera zoomed in on his tear-stained face.Sadness turned to anger and despair and he threw bow and violin across the room, letting out a blood-curdling anguished cry as they crashed into the far wall.

“Cut! That was great, Robert.”

Robert sniffed.“Let’s do another one.”

“I think you’ve trashed another violin.”

"Sorry."

“Can we get another violin, please?” Guy shouted.

After six more takes and two more violins, Robert was finally satisfied with the scene.He’d changed into his own clothes, downed a glass of water, and done a bit of impromptu wing chun to clear his head.He was picking up his bag and preparing to leave his trailer when his Blackberry trilled from its warm place inside his jacket pocket.He opened the door and stepped out as he slid the phone into his palm and glanced at the screen.Allyson.That was odd—why would his sister be calling him now?Likely to wish him a Merry Christmas. He’d almost forgotten what day it was.Now a pang of loneliness hit him as he imagined Suzie-Q curled up on the couch in that fluffy pink robe he’d given her, nestling little Exton against her chest.He pushed talk and held the phone to his ear.“Hey, sis, Merry Christmas!”

“Robert, where are you?” She sounded upset.

“Just leaving the set—we’ve finally wrapped, so I’m going to get some sleep and hop on a plane for L.A. first thing in the morning.”

“Is Susan with you?”

“No, she’s at home…why? You’re scaring me, Ally. What’s up? Is Mom okay?”

“Yeah, as far as I know…”

“Just spit it out, for fuck’s sake.”

“It’s Dad.Bobby…”

Robert closed his eyes.“Is he dead?”

"Yes."

The line went silent for a long time.Then Robert spoke, his voice cracking with emotion.“What happened? Was it his heart?”

“Yeah, the doctor said it was probably quick. I wasn’t there… one of his friends found him. I’m sorry to tell you this at Christmas…”

“Why? When would be a good time?”

“You know what I mean. Look, do you want me to call Mom?”

Robert didn’t know what to say. He’d bought his mother a house just down the street from his own.They saw each other often. He should be the one to tell her, but he didn’t want to. His parents had been divorced for decades, but he didn’t know how she’d react.He didn’t know how he should react. He still had such mixed, confused feelings about his father—he’d spent his whole life trying to impress Robert Sr.; being angry at him for slacking as a parent, never showing him how to live within boundaries; being proud of him for his stubborn refusal to capitulate to the norms of Hollywood filmmaking; resenting him for getting him and his sister started on drugs; being grateful for his unconditional love and affection… so many conflicting things to think about…

"Bobby?"

“No, it’s okay, I’ll call her.”

“About the funeral…”

“I’ll take care of it.I’ve got… people… Do you know what he wanted?”

“No.I thought you would.”

“I can guess.”Robert smiled, imagining the kind of unconventional party his dad might have wanted for his funeral.“I’ll make some calls and phone you in the morning when I get to the city, okay?”

“Okay, Robert.Good night.”

"G'night."

He put the phone back into his pocket, locked the trailer door, sat down on the ground, and cried.