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One thing that always surprised me about my friend Sherlock Holmes was his contradictory habits. On one hand, he was incredibly organized and methodical in his thinking, but on the other hand, he was extremely messy in his personal life. Despite his neat appearance, he tended to keep his things in a disorganized manner, which often annoyed those around him. Personally, I'm not very conventional either, especially after my experiences in Afghanistan, which made me less strict about tidiness. However, there's a limit to how much mess I can tolerate. When I see someone storing their cigars in strange places like the coal-scuttle, or keeping their unanswered mail stuck to the mantelpiece with a knife, I start to feel a bit self-righteous. I've always believed that shooting practice should be done outdoors, so when Holmes would sit indoors, shooting his pistol at the wall, I wasn’t particularly happy about it.

Our room was always cluttered with chemicals and items from past criminal cases. These things had a tendency to end up in strange places, like the butter dish or even worse spots. But the biggest problem was his papers. He hated getting rid of documents, especially those related to his previous cases. However, he only mustered the energy to organize them once every year or two. After his bursts of energy, he would become lethargic, spending his time lying on the sofa with his violin and books. Month after month, his papers piled up until every corner of the room was filled with bundles of manuscripts. They couldn't be burned and only he could put them away.

One winter night, as we sat by the fire, I suggested that he spend the next two hours tidying up our room since he had finished working on his commonplace book. He couldn't argue with my suggestion, so he reluctantly went to his bedroom and returned with a large tin box. He placed it in the middle of the floor and opened it, revealing bundles of paper tied up with red tape.

"There are plenty of cases here, Watson," he said, giving me a mischievous look. "I think if you knew everything I have in this box, you'd ask me to take some out instead of putting more in." "Are these records from your early work?" I asked. "I've always wished I had notes from those cases."

"Yes, my friend, these were all done before my biographer came to make me famous," he said, lifting bundles of papers gently. "They're not all successes, Watson," he continued. "But there are some interesting problems among them. Here's the record of the Tarleton murders, and the case of Vamberry, the wine merchant, and the adventure of the old Russian woman, and the strange affair of the aluminium crutch, along with a full account of Ricoletti of the club-foot, and his terrible wife. And here – ah, now, this is something unique."

He reached to the bottom of the chest and pulled out a small wooden box with a sliding lid like those used for children's toys. From inside, he took out a crumpled piece of paper, an old-fashioned brass key, a wooden peg with a ball of string, and three rusty metal discs. "Well, my friend, what do you think of this collection?" he asked, smiling at my reaction.

"It's an interesting collection."

"Very interesting, and the story behind it is even more fascinating."

"Do these relics have a story?"

"So much so that they are the story."

"What do you mean by that?"

Sherlock Holmes picked up each item one by one and placed them along the edge of the table. Then he sat back down in his chair and examined them with a satisfied look in his eyes.

"These," he said, "are all I have left to remind me of the adventure of the Musgrave Ritual."
I had heard him mention the case before, though I never knew the details. "I would be very grateful," I said, "if you could tell me about it."

"And leave the mess as it is?"