With a hefty amount of references listed on his resume, Jacob Sowersby was considered an odd sort of fellow in his work field. Despite his experience and qualifications, he declined every permanent position offered to him. He wore many layers of clothing, shuffled awkwardly on his feet when he spoke, and fiddled with his glasses. No one could ever call him unfriendly or unsociable though. He always spoke softly and wore a kind smile on his face, even if it did seem a shade melancholy at times. Despite his best attempts to play himself down, Jacob gave people the impression that he had pulled something deep within himself and no one had the ability to pry it out – people rarely had the chance as he often disappeared on a new contract not soon after.

John Watson had died seven years ago; killed by the authorities alongside his flatmate. Faking his death and going underground had gone against his moral code at the time, but he was smart enough to know when sacrifices had to be made. He adapted, survived, and even made his peace with their choice... sort of. It had been an agonizing decision, but he hadn't regretted it. Warfare tended to have that numbing effect on John.

And besides, he could do more good here under a different name, not gallivanting around the globe with Sherlock. No, he was getting far too old for that kind of game. He could relay information to his friend and offer a sanctuary to people who sought one out in the City. Native or ImPort, he wouldn't turn anyone away. Rumours of his tolerant nature circulated across the City and he hadn't put any of them to rest.

When he wasn't working or in the library, he kept mostly to himself. He wasn't completely alone though. He adopted an American Pit Bull Terrier puppy five years ago and named him Blackheath. Sentimental git, he scolded himself at the time, but the canine kept him company and John had someone to talk to in this lonely flat.