Sparking with quirky energy, Sherlock approached his chair with bounding steps. He flung himself into it, assuming the position of chin down and knees up that had carried him through many days as a boy in Miss McGonigle's home for wayward boys. He fought back the tears that always hovered, like vultures near the corpse of his heart, at the edge of recollection. Instead his hand sought his one solace, the pipe, an artisanal™ clay flute with the end ascending like a lover seeking a kiss. Into it Holmes prodded the dark North England shag he favored, a tobacco rich in leathery and oily scents and strong in the brain-altering (and cancer-causing; don't smoke kids, it's a ghetto drug) nicotine that conjured his dreams like a priestess of a forgotten forest glad. A single tear ran down his nose and he flung it aside with a head toss before others could see. Then, lowering the flame to the bouquet of shredded leaves, he drew in the smoke greedily, finding himself sighing as he was transported to another world.
Then he thought about the problem a bit.