It was Greg, standing just behind Sherlock, who caught him as he fell, gunshot still reverberating in the air around them.
It was Greg, feeling as if he could vomit, who pressed his hands and his coat to the gaping hole in Sherlock"s chest, who watched him gasping and choking on his own blood. Sally didn't need telling to call an ambulance, she looked as if she could vomit herself as she dialled for it.
It was Greg who fought to keep Sherlock conscious, who told him about cases and John, watching the flickering eyes as he tried to make them focus.
It was Greg, hardly a minute later, who breathed for Sherlock when he stopped, eyes rolling in his head as Sally staunched the blood flow.
(It was Sally who started chest compressions when she couldn't feel a pulse, watching the tears sparkling in her DI's eyes, and knowing that she'll never mention them.)
It was Greg who went with Sherlock in the ambulance, once the paramedics had persuaded his heart to work again.
And it was Greg who held his hand tight until his heart gave out again, lapsing back to mere quivering. It was Greg who sat back and prayed (though he'd never been much of a praying man) as he watched the paramedics invade Sherlock's body with more tubes and needles.
It was Greg who had to watch Sherlock get pushed away through doors where he couldn't follow so a full team of people could work on him, now that his heart was back beating.
It was Greg who had to ring John at the surgery and tell him that his fiancé had been shot and at that moment was very possibly dying. (That last bit he choked back when he was on the phone, remarking simply that it was serious though he suspected John could deduce the truth of the matter.)
It was Greg who had to scrub the blood off his hands, watching it swirl away down the drain, along with the streaks from off his face where he'd automatically run his hands over it. Then he went out and told Sally not to expect him back that day. And maybe not the next either. She doesn't question it, just says that she understands and they have the shooter in custody. Never has he been so grateful to have her.
It was Greg who had to sit John in a chair and give him tea and try settle the shakes out of him, try to work out how much to say and how much not to say, though John presses for the details and he has to come out with the full story. After that, John goes for a long walk, needing to worry and try to analyse in his own way. And it was Greg who had to talk to a white-faced Mycroft and try to assure him that it would be all right. (They both knew that he was more than likely lying.)
It was Greg who, hours later, John hugged when they heard that Sherlock had pulled through surgery in the end, his condition now reasonably stable. "Thank you." John's voice is a whisper and Greg nods.
"It's all right." And it is.