John was...not happy. Quite the opposite in fact. He knew that he was doing something wrong, although he was having a difficult time remembering what he was either doing or not doing. Carson seemed to be kneeling in front of him, which was strange and unexpected. John wasn't quite sure how it had happened.

John thought he should be sad, but mostly he was just sick. His stomach kept turning over, and if he stopped paying attention, if he forgot to breathe evenly or swallow hard or not move, it would spasm. And it was very hard to keep paying attention. Everything hurt. His mouth tasted sour, and he whimpered.

Someone said something to him. He wasn't sure exactly who, or what. If it was important, John hoped they would repeat it.

He focused on breathing, in and out over and over until he almost forgot his stomach. His world narrowed to that, until he realized that someone was still talking.

"I think he may have stopped."

"We'll give it a wee bit longer before we move him." John still wasn't sure what the voices were saying. Ignoring them, he continued to breathe.

Slowly, he became aware of a hand on his shoulder. Following that was a voice. Teyla's, John realized.

"John, are you feeling better? Do you still feel sick?" Teyla sounded so worried that John focused every ounce of willpower left to him on understanding her.

"Do you still feel sick?" Teyla asked again.

Did he still feel sick? John wasn't sure. He took a break from his breathing to evaluate, and almost immediately was back to gagging in the bowl.

"Uh huh," John mumbled weakly, the next time his throat muscles relaxed enough to speak.

Teyla was talking to him again, and John couldn't make out the words but her voice was lowered into a soothing cadence. John whimpered again as the muscles in his back, abdomen, and his sides protested sharply against the constant spasming. His nose and throat were burning, his eyes were watering, and he was absolutely miserable.

"He's started again." That was Rodney, John thought. "I knew this contest was a terrible idea."

Contest? Had John been in a contest? John tried to focus his scattered thoughts, but it was difficult. Everything seemed slowed down and difficult, like his thoughts were wading through heavy mud.

John didn't like it. Trying again, he grasped at the shreds of hazy memory that were left. They were in Kuwani...something about trade...and yes, a contest that he'd entered. John seemed to remember that it was important.

"Did…." John broke off, gagging up moonshine again and coughing as it seared his nasal passages. He tried again. "Did I win?"

"No, of course you didn't win." Rodney again. "Really, is that what you're worried about right now? Typical Sheppard, puking your guts out and asking about a contest."

John lost most of the meaning of that sentence, but he thought Rodney sounded angry. Had John done something wrong? He'd just wanted to know about the outcome of...he knew he'd been doing something important….

"Sorry," he gasped out, not daring to lift his head from the bowl.

Rodney didn't say anything, but he felt a hand settle on his back, too rough to be Carson's and too heavy to be Teyla's.

"'M sorry," John whispered again, because while he didn't remember either what he was apologizing for or why he was so drunk, he remembered saying sorry. And if he'd said it once, probably this was a good time to say it again.

His stomach twisted viciously, and he groaned and spit more liquid into the bowl. He was exhausted. He was ready to be done throwing up.

"How do you still have anything else inside you?" Rodney asked. John realized someone was running a hand down his back, and he thought that was probably Rodney too. "I think you threw up what we had for breakfast last Tuesday."

John didn't know how to respond to that - he didn't know how he was still throwing up either. He knew he was drunk, but now he couldn't remember why. Rodney's voice...it sounded very far away. He slumped forward a little, the exhausted muscles in his stomach begging for relief.

There had been a contest, he remembered that. He had been...there had been some sort of contest, and he had had to drink the most. And it was very important. And he'd been winning, or at least he thought he might have been. But now he was vomiting into a bowl, which did not seem like something that a winner was likely to do.

"Did I win the contest?" he asked shakily, voice sore from all the throwing up. "Did I...?"

There was a slight hesitation from Rodney. John spit into the bowl again, trying to rid his mouth of the awful taste of alcohol and stomach acid.

"Yeah," Rodney finally said quietly. "You won. Good job, Sheppard. You did well."

John smiled slightly as the world continued to swirl around him.

Rodney couldn't believe that at the beginning of the night, they'd been having fun. Just a little over an hour ago, he'd been laughing at how drunk John was, mentally plotting out how he'd retell the story on Atlantis later.

There was nothing remotely funny about the situation now. John was still throwing up, his entire body racked by muscle spasms. Rodney continued running his hand up and down John's back. He wasn't sure if it was helping, but he didn't feel right doing nothing at all.

John retched again, and Rodney winced as he felt John's back tense painfully under his hand. He wished that they could move John somewhere more comfortable, but there was obviously no point when he couldn't even stop throwing up long enough to answer questions.

It was easily another fifteen minutes before John subsided, but if the tightness in his expression was anything to go by, he wasn't done yet.

"Should we bring him to his room?" Teyla asked, relaxing her hold on John's shoulder ever so slightly.

Carson bent down again, apparently examining John again. When he stood up, he looked almost as worried as Rodney felt. "How far is it?"

"Very," Rodney complained. "I suggested we ask for more centrally located accommodations, but somebody insisted that it would be 'rude.'"

Teyla ignored him, nodding her corroboration to Carson. The doctor sighed and shook his head.

"We best not go too far just yet. He's nowhere near done, I'm afraid. If we could just get him somewhere a bit further out of the public eye…."

"There's a bench," Ronon announced helpfully, melting out of nowhere beside Rodney and scaring him half to death. Rodney stifled his yelp and glared at Ronon, who didn't seem to notice.

"No one's gonna come near us," Ronon continued. "Not after I got done with 'em. Nobody's allowed t'bother Shep, not on my watch."

Rodney chose to ignore Ronon's ominous pronouncement in favor of focusing on the bench. They could deal with whatever havoc Ronon had wreaked on their alliance later. Rodney couldn't focus on anything but John right now.

"Now seems to be a reasonable time to move him," Teyla said. "The vomiting seems to have slowed down or stopped."

"Hey, Sheppard, did you hear that?" Rodney asked. He knew he was speaking a little too loud and slow, as if John were hard of hearing instead of drunk. "We're going to bring you to a bench. And then, once you're feeling a little better, we're going to bring you to your room. Is that alright?"

John, predictably, did not respond. In fact, he did not give any indication that he had heard Rodney.

"Is this bench big enough for him to lie down on?" Carson asked Ronon.

Ronon shrugged. "I dunno. I think it might be."

Carson sighed, and removed the bowl from John's lap. "Alright then, let's get him up."

Rodney, assuming that meant him, reached a hand under John's arm and hauled him to his feet. John was completely limp, eyes closed, breathing shallow and unsteady. He did not seem to be aware that he was standing now. He slumped forward onto Rodney. He was skinny, but he had a good deal of height on Rodney. Rodney felt himself stumbling beneath the sudden weight.

Rodney was not particularly happy with their current positioning. Teyla and Carson both seemed to think John was done vomiting for the time being, but Rodney wasn't so sure. After watching his friend spend the last fifteen minutes puking into a bowl, Rodney wasn't sure why he should be. Rodney did not consider himself particularly adept at dealing with vomit, and while he was obviously willing to rally for John, he still certainly did not want to be thrown up on.

But John was deadweight, breathing shallow, slightly cool to the touch. Rodney wasn't about to push him away. Even if John did start to vomit again, Rodney wouldn't push him away. He couldn't.

Ronon quickly pulled John off Rodney, taking his other side and supporting more of his weight, which was a relief because Rodney didn't think he'd be able to get John very far on his own. They started making their way towards the bench they had let John rest on earlier. The Colonel was limp between them, not giving any indication that he knew he was being moved aside from occasional moans. Behind him, Rodney could hear Teyla filling Carson in on the rest of the details, describing exactly what had transpired.

They finally made it to the bench, and Rodney carefully lowered John down. Together, he and Ronon maneuvered the Colonel until he seemed fairly well positioned, half curled on his side. He didn't look too comfortable, sprawled on the hard surface, skin almost as pale as the marble bench beneath him. As an afterthought, Rodney balled up the jacket he was wearing and placed it under John's head.

Ronon was looking at him. Embarrassed, Rodney whirled on him.

"What?" he demanded.

"Nothing," Ronon said, a slightly idiotic grin crossing his face. "It was nice. That's all."

Rodney was not entirely sure how to deal with this oddly sentimental and talkative version of Ronon. It was...almost sweet?

Still, that wasn't his main concern at the moment. He needed to focus on John, who chose this moment to slip bonelessly off the bench and onto the floor. Rodney sighed and bent down to retrieve him, and Ronon helped haul him upright.

"Uh oh. I think he's gonna puke again," Ronon said, peering into John's face.

Rodney yelped slightly, but resisted the urge to abandon John to his fate. Instead, they lowered him back onto the bench, just as Carson and Teyla arrived with the basin.

Shots Nine - Six

Ronon grimaced sympathetically as John began to retch again, moonshine splattering into the bowl Carson had placed beneath him. He didn't seem to be conscious at all now. Rodney and Teyla both had a hand on him, apparently preventing him from rolling off the bench again. John's eyes were closed, all of his muscles relaxed. Ronon would have thought him asleep, except for the near constant puking.

Ronon had never been this drunk before, although that wasn't necessarily for lack of trying. He just hadn't yet managed to find anything strong enough to get the job done. But after seeing this, it seemed like that might have been a good thing. What was happening to John now certainly didn't seem fun.

"Hang in there, Shep," Ronon said, rubbing the back of John's neck. Hopefully, if he could feel it, he'd find it comforting. If he couldn't feel it, maybe he'd wake up just a little less sore, his head having been properly supported.

"Son, if you can hear me, I need you to respond," Carson said. He was kneeling in front of John, peering into the Colonel's slack face and carefully holding the bowl for him to vomit into. "John? Are you with me still?"
John made a small mumbling noise that might have been a response but was very possibly not. Then he threw up again.

Ronon realized that the whole team was gathered around John, and they all had a hand on him. Teyla was standing by his head, rubbing between his shoulder blades as his back violently contracted. Rodney was next to Carson, with a hand on John's shoulder, keeping him from rolling. Ronon found himself somewhat impressed by the squeamish scientist, who despite all his complaining, seemed as if he would rather get thrown up on by John than abandon his friend.

"You did a good job," Ronon informed John's limp body, giving his neck a pat. "You...you practically won."

Ronon had no idea if this was true. As soon as John had started vomiting, his Kuwanese opponent had been completely forgotten. After thirteen shots, Ronon was sure he was drunk too, and very possibly sick. But Ronon didn't know if he'd just barely beaten John, or if he still had a few more drinks left in him.

"You did great," Ronon continued. "We're all very proud."

John did not respond.

"Hey, is he supposed to be unconscious like this?" Rodney asked Carson. His voice was breathless, and Ronon had worked with Rodney enough to know he was on the edge of panic. "It seems like he's been unconscious for a really long time?"

"No, Rodney, he is not supposed to be unconscious like this," Carson said worriedly, not looking up from John's pale, waxy face. "As soon as he stops vomiting, we need to move him."

"Move him?" Rodney squeaked. "But didn't we just-"

"We need to get him somewhere I can set up an IV," Carson said, laying a hand on the side of John's neck, feeling for a pulse.

Ronon found this alarming. He knew John was sick, obviously, but he hadn't realized he would need that sort of medical care. He wasn't even sure that he'd known somebody could drink enough to get to that point. He'd assumed that John would throw up before that became an issue, but apparently he'd been wrong. For the first time, it occurred to him that maybe, this wouldn't all turn out fine.

"Is he gonna be okay?" Ronon asked quietly, still with a hand on John's neck. It was cool to the touch, unnervingly so. It didn't feel healthy.

Carson paused in whatever he was doing and looked up at Ronon. His eyes were worried, but the smile he gave Ronon was reassuring, and Ronon felt a bit better before the doctor even said anything.

"Aye. He'll be alright, as long as we keep an eye on him."

Ronon nodded, although it was hard to believe that John would be fine when he couldn't even wake up enough to form words.

"He has been through worse," Teyla told him softly, placing her free hand on his arm with an encouraging smile.

Teyla was right. John had been through plenty worse, and that was just in the time Ronon had known him. He could handle a little alcohol poisoning. That was nothing.

It was almost another ten minutes before John stopped throwing up for the second time.

"Is he done?" Rodney asked, his voice once again rising in pitch. "He's got to be done now, right?"

Carson nodded. "I think he'll be safe to move now. We best go quickly, now."

"I can carry him," Ronon volunteered. John was tall, but he wasn't as tall as Ronon. Besides that, he was rail-thin. In fact, now that Ronon thought about it, he seemed even skinnier than usual.

Either way, Ronon was sure it would be easy enough to manage, and more efficient than dragging him. McKay looked about two seconds away from a panic attack, and Ronon couldn't imagine that the risk of being thrown up on would help anything.

"Are you sure you can manage?" Rodney asked, still in the panic pitch.

Ronon snorted. "C'mon. The guy weighs what, like twenty pounds?"

Rodney opened his mouth, looking very much as though he were about to lecture Ronon on what kinds of things actually weighed twenty pounds. Eager to forestall that particular argument, Ronon reached down and lifted John off the bench.

Ronon, who was quite sure that he could carry John on a normal day, had forgotten about one crucial fact. He was drunk. The second John's weight was in his arms, he felt himself stagger, John's body throwing him off balance. He had a split second to tell himself that, no matter what happened, he would not drop John, but then, seemingly of their own accord, his hands were opening and he was dropping John. John tumbled out of his arms and onto the ground. He rolled bonelessly for a foot or two and then came to rest, a limp tangle of limbs.

He did not react in the slightest, as if he didn't even realize that he'd been dropped. Ronon slowly put a hand over his mouth.

And then, John began gagging again.