This is for PGF, and she knows why (hugs):
I was sitting before the fire smoking when my thoughts were shattered by a crash, a sloshing, and a cry of dismay – in that order.
I twisted round to see Watson standing motionless with a look of utter horror, watching a brown river of coffee pour over the side of his desk.
"Watson – the coffee, man, it's staining the carpet!"
"The carpet can be replaced!" he moaned, snatching a napkin and mopping the pool under the desk.
Oh, dear…
"Do I want to ask what got ruined?"
"An entire story," he whispered miserably, lifting the now-soggy pages lovingly.
I was about to make some comment about the world being better off for one less romantic memoir but stopped upon seeing Watson's face – had I not known better I should have sworn he was close to tears. At any rate, he looked utterly heartbroken and even my heart went out to his misfortune as he slumped dejectedly into his chair.
"I'm sorry, old boy."
"My own fault…I should never have liquids round when I'm writing…"
"So have a stiff brandy and begin again," I suggested quietly. "And I'm quite sure your second story will be even more stunning than the first."
"You really think so?" he asked miserably.
"My dear Watson. With you as the author, how could it be anything but?"