Anderson fidgeted as he stood behind the podium. The room was full to the brim, camera's flashing from every corner, necks craning for a better view. He shuffled his feet a bit and cleared his throat before speaking.
"I first met Sherlock Holmes nine years ago." he said. "And he was a pain in my arse. Every other word out of his mouth was a new insult and by the end of the investigation I can safely say that most everyone in our department was contemplating murder-suicide."
Several people in the room cast each other wary looks, but remained silent. "I'll never understand what possessed Greg to do what he did; we all thought his was barmy. But Holmes did catch us our killer," Anderson amended, "and then another, and another, and another. The help was all well and good, but it came with a price. We haven't been rid of the tosser since. At least, not till now."
Looking out at the crowd he could see people fidgeting in their seats and, oh, there was Watson, looking positively apoplectic, and moving slowly towards the podium.
"We had to put up with the insufferable git for years, all the while knowing what would inevitably happen, even if it did take too bloody long. So thank you, Greg, for finally asking the wanker to marry you," he looked at Greg, sitting there next to a scowling Sherlock, positively shaking with suppressed laughter.
"Departmental legal jargon says spouses can't work on the same cases together," he cast a pseudo-mournful look at Detective Inspector Dimmock. "Sorry mate. He's your problem now. Congratulations, you two. It's been a long time coming. Cheers!"
The guests raised their champagne glasses to the Best Man's befuddling speech and toasted the new Mr. and Mr. Holmes-Lestrade.