Not Until We Are Lost

Waking up was instant for Methos, it always had been after spending so many years as a mercenary killing machine with three partners he wasn't quite sure wouldn't decide to stab him in the back at some point.

This time when he woke up he was in a large and comfortable wingback chair with his sword laying across his lap with his hand on the hilt and the scabbard like he was ready for an attack in his sleep. He hadn't been this way before and he didn't recognize the room at all.

This was definitely starting to get old.

"Bollocks."