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On the way there, Sherlock joked a bit. Said it was something that ran in Lestrade's family, the divorces. Greg laughed, for the sake of it, but realised with an afterthought that it was all quite sad. It was going to be his sister's third marriage and Greg already knew, from having met the bloke during a Sunday lunch, that it wasn't going to last.
Why she kept on marrying the wrong one, he never understood. Although he was probably not the best placed to comment on that.
Sherlock hadn't been strictly invited, so to speak - which had hurt Greg more than he had expected - but he had done as he always did and had wedged himself in the occasion. Greg was already dreading the conversation with his sister, knowing full well what she thought of Sherlock.
"You'll behave, yeah?” he had asked, just as Sherlock had appeared to his side, swinging his bagged suit on top of Greg's at the back of the car. The detective had merely rolled his eyes and jumped into the passenger seat, leaving Greg both weary of the negotiating and apologising that was to come, but also just a tiny bit relieved that he wouldn't have to face the event on his own.
And for having previously attended family functions with Sherlock, he knew it was going to be anything but dull.
They changed in the dingy bathroom of a petrol station, Greg struggling for five good minutes to get his bow tie right. After some exasperated huffing, Sherlock had snatched it from his hands and done it himself. It didn't look perfect, but it was good enough.
The religious service was uneventful. Given the choice, Greg would have preferred to sit outside of the small church to wait it out, but being from the family, he wasn't afforded the luxury. Sherlock, in a surprising show of solidarity, had come inside as well, and was currently sitting next to Greg, a pen in hand and a missal open on his thighs. From the corner of his eye, Greg could see him scribbling, striking and correcting chunks of it in the margins. He elbowed him during a hymn, trying to muster his most stern glare. Sherlock merely answered with a most infuriating innocent smile and renewed his efforts. The service finished just as he reached the end of the book and he put it back in its place, the satisfaction of a job well done showing on his face.
"You bloody child", Greg whispered, as they were leaving the church.
"I'm educating the masses", countered Sherlock, before turning away and congratulating the newly-weds with a fake cheerful smile.
Just before his sister was about to make some unrequited remark, Greg dragged Sherlock away and went to greet an elderly aunt of his. She pulled Greg to the side, pointing not-so-subtly at Sherlock and wondered in a stage-whisper: "Does the young lad know you won't leave him any money when you die?" Greg chocked and spluttered, but before he could answer anything, Sherlock had approached them. "I can assure you that I don't stay with him for the money. I have enough of it on my own."
The aunt grunted and squinted for a bit, then jabbed a finger in Sherlock's chest. "You take care of him. He's got enough worries as it is."
Sherlock smiled affably while Greg did his utmost to find interest in a patch of gravel. After the aunt had moved away to comment on someone's dreadful hat, Sherlock bumped his shoulder with Greg's.
"So that's what I'm known as in your family? Your toy-boy?"
"Hush."
"Do they dread the day when I'm going to come and claim the silverware?"
Greg fought the smile that was beginning to creep on his face. "That one already has my sister's name on it."
"Ah. I'll try to contain my excitement when I'm offered the Tupperware boxes, then."
Greg burst out in laughter, accompanied with a few deep chuckles from Sherlock. After they had calmed themselves a bit - which took Greg longer than expected due to Sherlock's remarks about which colours he'd prefer when it came to the boxes and what he'd store in them - they made their way towards the reception room. If they stopped along the way to kiss behind a tree, they were far enough behind the cortège for it to go unnoticed.
Sherlock, using the undeniable charm he possessed (when he could be bothered to acknowledge it), managed to convince all the other invitees at the table to squeeze together so he could sneak a chair for him, next to Greg. The latter, having witnessed a profusion of unrequited compliments on hats, dresses, and the fabric of one elderly gentleman's top hat, let a falsely exasperated sigh out. Sherlock merely raised his eyebrows. "You said to behave."
"Mm. Not used to have you actually listen."
"I like to be able to surprise you. And not with something involving dead animals."
Seeing the alarmed look of his neighbour, Greg cleared his throat and swiftly changed the topic of conversation. Sherlock joined in soon after, quickly charming the table with his culture and erudition. Greg sat back and quietly listened to him with a fond smile. He was glad to see him like this, actually opening up to other people, but not with the sole aim of impressing them.
The dinner went by quickly, spurred on by delicious food and wine, along with good company. Once the tables had been cleared up after the main course, Greg excused himself and went to see his sister, not having had the opportunity to talk to her for most of the day. Her first words, however, were not the one he expected.
"Why did you bring him?"
Greg looked around, not wanting to engage in an argument in front of strangers. Satisfied that most people seemed otherwise occupied, he pulled a chair and sat down next to her. "Because he's with me."
She scoffed. "It's never going to last. Thought you'd have realised that by now."
Greg visibly bristled. "I've been with him longer than you have been with your new husband."
"Dave and I are different."
Greg scoffed. "Right."
There was a long silence. He looked across the room, trying to catch a glimpse of Sherlock, but the detective was hidden by a pillar. He could almost feel the frustration coming off from his sister.
"I love him", he declared after a while. It was his sister's turn to scoff. "He doesn't. Although he obviously loves using you."
Greg got up and pushed the chair back in its place. He gave it an absent-minded pat. "I'll be the judge of that." She didn't answer and he left, feeling tenser than he had been all day.
Returning to their table, he sat back down among bursts of laughter following a tasty joke told by one of the guests. He plastered a smile on his face, but left his plate of cheese entirely untouched, still reeling from the previous conversation. It's only when Sherlock settled a calming hand on his thigh that he realised he had bounced it up and down. He threw him an apologetic glance. "Sorry." Sherlock left his hand there for a few minutes, then pulled away to fill Greg's glass with more wine.
Greg gradually calmed down and joined into the joyful banter. Some had already left, the evening having dragged into the early hours of the morning. Sherlock, who had absented himself for about half an hour had come back, looking less than his usual prim self. His eyes were glinting and he had ditched his jacket, obviously feeling too warm, if the pink patches on his cheeks were anything to go by.
Greg smiled fondly at him. "You're drunk."
"Am not."
"You're not exactly sober either, Sunshine."
Sherlock leaned forward, a knowing look on his face and poked Greg's lapel. "There's a whole range of stages between sober and drunk, and I'm not even halfway up the ladder."
Greg nodded in mock agreement. "Well. Tell me when you reach the 'jumping on the table and taking your clothes off' stage."
Sherlock grinned: "So that you can be all noble and save my virtue before I embarrass myself?"
Greg leaned back in his chair, giving Sherlock a leery once-over. "Nah. Just so I can get a good seat."
The detective leaned forward, smirking as he kissed Greg's cheek. "Dirty old man." Greg's answer was cut off by the first notes of a new song. He hadn't paid attention to the music until now, the songs a litany and repetition of previous weddings, but that one, that one he wasn't going to let slide over him.
Sherlock knew, obviously, because he had leaned back and grabbed his hands, that excited glint in his eyes more present than ever. "Come dance?” he asked, and how could ever Greg resist that question?
They made their way to the dance floor rather unsteadily, Sherlock slotting his body against Greg's, his arm not so much resting on his waist than using it as an anchor. Greg chuckled for no reason in particular and buried his head in the detective's shoulder. He knew they must look a sight, not really moving in rhythm and sometimes swaying a bit dangerously, but he couldn't care less. Then, Roberta Flack started singing, and he mumbled the words along, trying his best not to be off-key. "The first time ever I saw your face -"
A deep baritone cut him short. "I was OD'ing in a dark wet alley..." Greg swatted Sherlock on the arm. "Stop it. Ruining it."
"Ruining what?"
Greg sighed. "Trying to be romantic."
"Apologies. Proceed with your romantic pursuits."
Greg rolled his eyes, but tried to catch up with the song nonetheless.
"The first time ever I kissed your mouth -” That time, when Sherlock interrupted him with a kiss, Greg couldn't bring himself to scold him. It was a very nice kiss, after all. Almost as nice as the first one. Or maybe better.
When they pulled away from each other, it took him a few seconds to remember the lyrics. "- like the trembling heart of a captive bird -" The rest got lost when Sherlock deemed wise to imitate a bird's tweet and Greg burst into a fit of unstoppable giggles.
It only got worse a few moments later when Greg, having caught his breath and being stubborn enough to continue, sang -rather loudly- "the first time ever I lay with you", had Sherlock answer, in a perfect imitation of Flack's voice: "and felt my cold feet close to yours".
Greg gave up, body shaking with silent laughter, while Sherlock hummed the rest of the song in his ear. And if he stopped to murmur "And last 'till the end of time, my love", nobody heard it except for Greg. And it was just as good.