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It was John Watson who inadvertently summed it up best.
The photographer asked for the next shot to be the groom with the best man and the page boy. Sherlock and Archie dutifully stepped up as Mary and her flock of bridesmaids moved aside.
"Hey!"
Greg looked up to see John beckoning to him.
"Come on, Greg - you should be in this one as well."
"No, really John, It's OK…"
"Nonsense. After all, you're practically my second best man, right?"
Greg sighed as he took his place on Sherlock's left. He knew what John meant; second - as in "another" - best man. Didn't stop his brain from hearing it the other way though.
Second best. Not quite good enough. The man behind the man who's out in front.
Silver medallist.
Greg sometimes felt like he'd spent his whole life as a runner-up.
He'd been a surprise to his parents - a late addition when they already had one son on whom they'd lavished all their love and attention. Greg was an afterthought. He was clever and personable, did well in both academic and physical pursuits - but not quite as well as the Lestrade who'd gone before him. "Bet you wish you were as clever/fast/good with the girls as your brother, eh?" became the continually repeated refrain of Greg's early life.
Greg didn't mind. He adored his brother, along with everyone else. It wasn't his parents he got his good grades for - he knew they would never be as proud of him as they were of their golden boy, no matter what he did. He did it for Jason, who encouraged him every step of the way in his chosen profession.
"You'll be a great policeman, Greg."
And he would be - he would show them; he was going to be the best policeman in the Met…
Except for Toby Gregson.
Toby was 6'4", blond haired, square jawed and had the physique of someone who should be running along a beach with a lifebuoy in his hand as dramatic music played. He breezed in and out, never seeming to put in any extra effort and yet all his paperwork was meticulous. his cases as near watertight as you could wish for.
Greg seemed to be up to his eyeballs in paperwork 24/7 and though his close rate was just as good, Toby made it look easy - and looked good doing it.
The higher-ups loved him, their colleagues loved him, the press especially loved him - and Greg loved him, though he'd never admit to it in a month of Sundays. (You could call your best mates poof and queer in the showers after football, but get caught looking the wrong way and you'd be waking up in an alley with your teeth smashed in and find yourself mysteriously demoted and dismissed in short order.)
So Greg didn't mind being second best to Toby. He kept his head and his hopes down and did the best he could - even if his best always fell just that little bit short of Toby's - or seemed to in the boss's eyes anyway. As time went on he let his love for Toby mellow into a friendly rivalry, found a nice girl, settled down and contented himself with knowing he was making a difference and even if he wasn't the best policeman, he was probably the better detective…
Until Sherlock Holmes showed up.
Nobody would describe Sherlock as "golden", not with that tumble of dark curls and his great black coat. A lot of his colleagues thought Sherlock brought the shadows with him like a storm cloud; Greg knew they were wrong - Sherlock caused shadows the same way the sun does, by being brilliant.
When he got it, that moment he put together all the things Greg had missed and came up with the solution, it was like the sun coming out.
And Greg had been a sun-worshipper all his life, even when he eventually, inevitably, got burned.
So he let Sherlock in - to cases, crime scenes and that small dusty corner of his heart Toby Gregson used to occupy - and while he never let that corner grow, because his heart truly belonged to the woman he'd sworn himself to, he did his best to steer Sherlock away from the path of destruction he'd found him on and even dared to think he may one day be considered a friend...
Until the arrival of John H. Watson, late of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.
John and Sherlock's friendship made the biblical David and Jonathan look like casual acquaintances. Greg had never seen two people click together so quickly and so obviously.
He couldn't grudge it. Alright he could, but he wouldn't. Both men were better for it - and everyone was better for them being better, Greg included. He wished he could have been for Sherlock what John was but above all he was just glad that Sherlock had someone that close.
And Sherlock still treated him with slightly less contempt than everyone else - which had to count for something.
And he still had his own best friend, in the shape of his wife...
"No, she's sleeping with a PE teacher."
He went home, numb, and they talked.
She was tired of him putting her second - second to the job, second to that crazy junkie - and how could he argue with that? He hadn't put her first so he came second to someone who would.
She packed her things and left. They sold the house, split the proceeds 50/50 and went their separate ways. Her to a new life with her new man, Greg to a second-rate flat in a second rate neighbourhood where he carried on with his second-rate life...
Until Sherlock threw himself off the roof of St Barts.
Greg suddenly found that the little corner of his heart that belonged to Sherlock had quietly found room to grow after his wife left and having it abruptly ripped out left a far bigger hole than he'd been expecting.
Having it miraculously resurrected - just for a moment - felt like winning. So did finally, finally catching the Waters family in the act…
Except Sherlock had sent him a plea for help at the worst possible moment and yet again he had to play second fiddle, this time to bloody Jones of all people.
And now here they were, the best man and the second best man at the best friend's wedding.
He waited until John and Mary had their first dance and quietly backed out into the garden for some fresh air which he intended to pollute at the earliest available opportunity.
"Those things will kill you."
He paused and with the bluntness of several pints of lager said, "I'm not that lucky," before lighting it up anyway.
Sherlock snatched the cigarette from his lips. "Exactly - so why tempt Fate?"
Greg snorted. "You of all people don't believe in Fate."
"No, but I generally believe in doctors." Sherlock glanced back towards the pulsing lights of the reception hall. "Especially when they make me realise that some things are worth taking a risk for... Like you."
"Like me? How am I a risk? I'm the most boring, old, grey person you know."
Sherlock turned to face him. "You're kind and gentle and handsome - and your hair is particularly suited to moonlight."
He leaned forward and his long elegant fingers slid up the side of Greg's face into his hair.
"It's not grey. It's silver - and it's beautiful."
And he kissed him.
For the first time, Greg thought that maybe silver wasn't so bad after all...
Forty minutes later with Sherlock's legs draped over his shoulders and the taste of him still on his lips, Greg decided there was also a lot to be said for coming second.