A/N: Between my academic and professional writing, I've not had a project to mess around with in nearly a year. When I decided to start this one, I made a commitment to myself to pants this instead of planning every detail like I've done with all my recent creative projects. If you're enjoying it or have any feedback, or if there are any native Chicagoans out there who want to point me to some good authentic Chicago places to reference, drop me a comment or a PM. Thank you to all who take the time to read this.

Enjoy!


WHAT YOUR SACRIFICE WAS FOR

by Silmarilz1701

Update Schedule:

Briefly on hold, updates to resume in mid to late autumn


"Oh my friends, my friends

Don't ask me what your sacrifice was for."

Empty Chairs at Empty Tables, Les Mis


Chapter One | Six Months


She heard voices all around her. They droned on like worker bees in a hive, punctuated by the crackle of police radios. She vaguely realized the blonde paramedic dressing the gunshot wound to her left arm wanted her to lie down. She tried to refocus her rattled brain.

"We need to get you to the hospital."

She willed herself out of the confusing swirl of strobing red and blue. It took a few moments, but at last the taste of blood on her lips and steady stream of rain down her face grounded her enough to help her push past the concussion clouding her judgement. She turned her head and focused on the paramedic. The headlights from a dozen police vehicles and the flashlights carried by their officers helped her see the pale face of the drenched paramedic woman in front of her.

"I'm fine."

"Fine is not the word I would use, Detective."

The paramedic finished using the white gauze wrap already staining red. With a sigh, the paramedic helped her stand up from where she had been sitting in the open doors of the ambulance.

"What's your name?" the paramedic said.

She paused, half distracted by the pristine sheets of the soft but firm stretcher the woman had deposited her on. When she didn't answer right away, the woman frowned.

"Do you know where-"

"Detective Imogen Adler. Badge number 51395."

Pain began to flood her body as the adrenaline wore off. She closed her eyes, gritting her teeth. The concussion didn't help her already confusing identity. It had been months since she'd been Imogen Adler. It had been years since Imogen Adler had come out of the mouth of a Chicagoan.

"Do you hurt anywhere beside your head and arm, Detective?" The paramedic - Brett, was it - continued to poke and prod even as Imogen tried to forget her pain lying in the stretcher. Brett lifted her black tank top up off her torso as the ambulance lurched forward. "These are some nasty bruises."

Imogen just wanted to sleep. The fluctuating pitch of the speeding ambulance felt more like a lullaby than a nuisance after months away from fellow first responders. Pouring rain against the metal and glass didn't help.

"Hey, Detective. I need you to stay with me."

The paramedic's voice faded. In the low light of the ambulance, she felt the world closing in, blanketing her. Imogen gave up. She just wanted to sleep.

The next time Imogen woke it was with a jolt and a bang. Blinking back against sharp white light, she tried to filter through the chorus of voices around her.

"Detective Adler, are you with us?"

Not the paramedic. This was male, confident and firm even as he asked a question. Imogen felt prodding hands on her body. She forced open her eyes again.

"Detective Adler, I'm Dr. Rhodes. Can you tell me where you're hurt?"

Doctor. The bright lights and chaos around her suddenly made sense. Blues, greens, and startling whites reminded her of nearly every hospital she'd ever been in as she focused.

"Gunshot wound, left arm," Imogen said, voice strained even to her own ears. "Bruising to the torso. Head trauma. Stab wound, lower right leg."

"Quite the list."

Imogen focused on Dr. Rhodes. He had pale skin, hair nearly black like her own, and maroon scrubs. Between the whirlwind of tests he ordered that her concussed brain couldn't keep track of he continued to engage her.

"Does the CPD know you're here?"

"Yes."

"Anyone we should contact? Friends, family?"

Another list came to mind. Names she'd recited in her mind every night in every musty motel room, smokey four-door sedan, and dirty warehouse she'd laid low in over the past six months since her return to Chicago. Jay Halstead. Will Halstead. Her former unit in Organized Crime. Others long since dropped out of her life.

But she couldn't call any of them. As far as they knew, she'd been dead years. So she just shook her head ever so slightly while on her back.

"No."

"Well you're in luck, Detective. It looks like a clean shot, through and through. It missed everything important." He snapped off his gloves and flashed her a tight smile. "Ribs are bruised but not broken, and the stab wound is easily repairable."

Imogen released a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Doc."

They must've given her more painkillers because the world began to blur again. She couldn't keep her eyes open. Voices muffled and the beeps of the machines faded into the background.

When she woke again, she found herself in a quiet, isolated room with low light and a few machines to keep her company. Across from her, speaking in hushed voices, stood two men. She recognized them both even before she had fully shook herself from the drugs. Sergeant Hank Voight and Detective Antonio Dawson. Last she'd heard, they ran Intelligence.

Imogen had the upper hand. Neither noticed she'd woken up. Instead, they stood against the large door, silhouetted by the light filtering through the barely shuttered window.

"How many did we get?"

They stopped mid conversation. Her own voice surprised her. It sounded scratchier than she remembered. But she didn't have time to think too hard about it before both Voight and Dawson moved to the foot of her bed, the former with hands in pockets and the latter with his arms across his chest.

"Three dead, sixteen in custody, and enough evidence to jail another forty," Voight said. "You did good, Detective."

"That's an understatement," Dawson said. "You gathered enough intel to fill a filing cabinet over the past six months."

Imogen couldn't help smiling through the pain. "I aim to please."

"Your case's been transferred to us going forward," Voight said. "Doc says you can be out of here in the next couple days. Take a week off, then I want a full debrief on the operation down at the 21st."

"Yes, sir."

"Get some rest, Adler. You've earned it."

She turned to look at Dawson. She'd heard his voice many times over the past six months, as he'd been one of her contacts to report to in the CPD while on her deep cover assignment. But conversations over burner phones couldn't fill the place of face to face contact. Imogen forced herself to smile.

"You did good," Voight repeated.

Her voice caught in her throat. With a small nod, she tried to focus on the cloth hospital gown against her skin, on the steady beeps of the machines, and on the way the soft light cast twilight shadows around the room. Anything but thinking of the bleeding and betrayed faces of the men and women she'd set up that night.

"Jay Halstead."

Imogen hated the twinge of desperation in her own voice. Voight and Dawson both stopped at the door. They turned back around and she paused again.

"What about him?" Dawson said.

"He's in your unit these days, right?"

Voight nodded. "What do you want with him?"

"He's an old friend." Imogen tightened her fingers around the sheets of the hospital bed as she remembered running around the corners of Canaryville with the Halstead brothers.

"You wanna talk to him?" said Dawson.

Imogen hesitated. Five years was a long time to not see someone. The anger and fear she'd seen through pouring night rain gave her reason to pause. Five years of names she wanted to see again. But maybe it would be better to never tell. She didn't know if she could handle those emotions in the eyes of Imogen Adler's friends. It had been hard enough coming from the friendships she'd formed over the past six months undercover.

"No. Keep my name off record."

"Sure." Voight turned away after a small, quiet nod. "Rest up."

Soon Imogen sat alone with the hospital machines. The IV in her right arm itched under the bandage and once she noticed it, she wanted nothing more than to scratch it away. She didn't know how many hours she'd drifted in and out of consciousness but she remembered getting a 6AM blood draw and Neuro exam.

Everything here was too slow. In her private room in the ICU, they left her alone with bloodstained memories. Her hands shook underneath the pristine hospital blanket. She wanted a gun in her hands.

A double knock sounded on her door. Imogen flinched, glancing up. An older man, heavy set with glasses and greying dark hair smiled at her as he moved inside, his grey lab coat catching on the handle for a moment. Chief of Psychiatry had been seen across the breast.

Great. A shrink.

"Detective Adler, how are you doing this morning? I'm Dr. Charles. Mind if I come in?"

Imogen sat up a bit straighter, refusing to let her pain show on her face at the movement. She shrugged. This had been expected.

"Do you mind if I call you Imogen?"

"Yes."

Dr. Charles nodded, moving a little closer. "Of course. So, Detective, how are you feeling this morning? I understand you've been through quite an eventful past few months."

"I feel fine, Doctor. Eager to be out of here."

"Hm. Well, if you want to be discharged I have a feeling you know the drill."

Imogen nodded.

"How'd you sleep?"

"Uneventfully."

"Any nightmares or anxious thoughts?"

"No."

"Detective, how long were you undercover?"

With a strained breath in through her nose, Imogen glanced around the room and away from his sharp gaze. "Six months."

"As I understand it, you were undercover for a lot longer than that."

Imogen glanced back at him. "This assignment was for six months."

"Right. And when you were undercover, what name did you go by?" Dr. Charles sat down on a doctor's stool by a small counter.

Imogen felt a lump form in her throat. "That's classified."

Dr. Charles let his tablet lay flat on his lap, the screen dark. "I assure you, Detective, it won't leave the room. But I need you to work with me if you want to be certified to work."

"Laura. Laura Maddox."

"Can I call you Laura?"

For a brief moment, Imogen felt like time stopped. But she forced out a small, "No."

"I see."

Silence fell between them again. The lights had all been turned on to full and doctors and nurses in scrubs move about beyond her window. Imogen looked past Dr. Charles, intent on ignoring the shrink. She focused on the medical professionals.

Imogen didn't recognize any of them. Her heart beat a bit faster as she realized how alone she was. Maybe she should've asked for Jay. All her friends, Imogen's or otherwise, were gone.

"Detective, I'm not ready to clear you for active duty yet."

Imogen jerked back to look at him. "What?"

"I think you'd benefit from some time off."

"But I'm fine, Doc. I'm fine."

Dr. Charles just sighed. "Physically, you'll need time to recover before being placed on anything but desk duty. And frankly, years of undercover work can be devastating to the human mind. You need to take a break."

"No."

"I'm sorry, Detective. I want to see you back in my office in a week."

Imogen's heart pounded in her chest. A chill ran down her spine and her hands felt like ice as he got up to leave her alone with that horrible ultimatum. She had nothing but her work. Nothing but her cover stories and alibis.

"Please, doc. My job is all I have!"

Dr. Charles paused with his left hand on the door handle. "That's what worries me."

Pain surged through her as she scrambled to sit up even straighter. Bruised ribs hurt more than a clean gunshot wound and she hissed through her teeth at the movement.

"I'll send someone in to check your medicine."

When he opened the door, Imogen fell silent. She wavered a bit at the bright light and noise. But a glimpse of unkempt red hair and a profile she would have recognized a mile away stopped her. He leaned against the counter with a small smile on his face as he chatted with Dr. Rhodes.

"Detective Adler is cleared for discharge on my end Dr. Rhodes, though not for work," Dr. Charles said.

Imogen saw the moment Will Halstead registered her name even from just the side of his face. His smile fell. His skin paled. Muscles tensing, he stood away from the counter. "Imogen Adler?"

Dr. Charles turned to Will. "You know her?"

She'd never forgotten those brown eyes, even so many years later. Imogen stopped struggling to sit up as he looked at her like he'd seen a ghost, still not moving towards the room. Heat rose to her face. How horrible did she look? Probably covered in bruises. When had he moved back to Chicago?

"You're supposed to be dead!"

"I thought you were in New York? When did you come back to Chicago?"

Will sputtered half a laugh and just shook his head. "Oh no, no, don't you change the subject." He moved past Rhodes and past Dr. Charles into her room. Jabbing a finger her way, he seemed at a loss for words. "Everyone thinks you're dead!"

"I'm sorry."

He had that pain in his eyes. The betrayal. She'd seen it too much the past few days, she couldn't take anymore of it. Imogen shook her head, hands shaking as she tried to brush off his concern.

Will turned away from her. "Connor?"

"Paramedics brought her in a little after 1 AM. GSW to the arm, several bruised ribs," Dr. Rhodes said. He moved to stand level with Will at the foot of her bed and pulled up his tablet. He passed it over. "Here. Her complete chart."

Tearing it from Rhodes' grasp, Will's hands shook as he scrolled through the data. Imogen watched him. She didn't know what to say. She just watched him, watched as he tried to focus on the tablet in his hands but more often than not, stared at it unseeing. Finally he just handed it back to Dr. Rhodes.

"You've been working with the CPD this whole time?"

"Not the whole time." She looked past him and Dr. Rhodes. After a brief hesitation, she sighed. "Close the door."

Dr. Charles, overhearing her, pulled it closed and left the three of them in the room. With the door shut, she pushed herself further up and ran a hand through her matted hair. Imogen frowned.

"Past six months, I've been in deep cover in Chicago reporting to Detective Dawson in Intelligence. Before that, I did several years with the feds." As Will grew agitated again, Imogen shut him down. "I have a job to do, just like you Will."

"Intelligence? Jay knows?"

"No."

Dr. Rhodes finished looking over her chart and moved between them. "I hate to break up this touching reunion, but I'm needed in the OR soon. How's your pain? Need any medication adjustments?"

"I'm fine."

"Right. Then I'll leave you two to catch up."

He flashed her a tight smile. Giving Will a pat on the shoulder on his way out, Dr. Rhodes soon disappeared back out into the chaos of the hospital. For several quiet heartbeats it was just her and Will in silence.

"Jay spoke at your funeral, you know," Will finally told her. His voice tightened just like his fingers around his own tablet. "Five years, Imogen. You let us think you were dead for five years."

She sniffed back tears. "I'm sorry, Will."

"I flew back for it."

"I'm sorry."

Will shook his head. His jaw clenched. "Someone will be in to check on you later." Without another word, he just left the room. The door slammed shut behind him.

Imogen couldn't breathe. Her throat closed in, body shaking as she felt her chest tightening. Too many betrayals. Too many betrayals across too many lives. The monitors started going off, and the last thing Imogen made sense of before the world faded around her was Dr. Charles standing over her bed while a nurse in blue scrubs pushed meds into her scratchy IV.