Disclaimer: Detective Conan belongs to Gosho Aoyama and associated parties. I do not make money nor own anything with the exception of my own original characters.

Author's note: A fun, fun, fun thought experiment. This one won't be too long but the wait can be. It will be updated sporadically whenever I have free time after the other fics. Thank you and enjoy.

Visit me on Tumblr for artworks and interesting tidbits: wormwoodwine

Chapter 1 What the hell happened to me?

Gin woke up in a random car temporarily utilized for a mission. He stretched his limbs and cracked his neck. For the first time in his life, spending a night in an awkward sitting position didn't fill him with sores. In fact, he felt rested. No, he felt great. He had one of the best night's sleep in years. But the entire stakeouts were for naught, as his memory informed him. He went all the way to New York for nothing.

Then, something strange happened. He couldn't reach the steering wheel. He looked down to find his clothes gathering beneath him. To his horror, his entire body was covered in black fur.

It can't be happening. He thought and jumped on the headrest of the driver's seat. In the rearview mirror wasn't of a tall, blond man but of a black cat with vibrant green eyes.

"Bro, I brought …" Vodka's voice interrupted Gin's thoughts. His partner opened the passenger's door with an armful of greasy paper bags and a tray of coffee. His eyes landed on the furball. "What are you doing here? Out! He'll be pissed."

Panic set in when Vodka noticed the clothes covered in the cat's hair. He hastily called Gin's phone only to find the vibrating device in Gin's pants pocket.

"Vodka, it's me!" Gin screamed but what came out was a bunch of desperate meows.

"I don't have time for you! Get out!" Vodka was in a full-blown panicking mood, dragging Gin by the back of his neck and throwing him out of the car.

Sitting on the sidewalk, he stared at his hysterical partner and gave up on revealing his identity. Who would believe a cat?

-o0o-

As Gin was wandering on the streets and thinking about his next move, he came across another problem. He was nearsighted and colorblind. His vision was blurry, and he could only see shades of blues and greens. He couldn't read any signs. The world seemed strangely muted. And at the same time, it was bombarded with unimaginable noises making him lightheaded. Then, he remembered that a cat's vision was different from a human's and that the hearing was three times better.

"Shit!" He cursed under his breath. However, it wasn't all bad news. He had a theory for his condition. The organization was testing a lot of new drugs. He knew of a poison that could shrink a corpse. It wouldn't be far-fetched if something was able to turn him into a cat. Perhaps, someone dosed him.

Just wait. He bared his fangs at the thought.

To reverse the effect, he would need access first. But how?

While he was taking shelter at a bus stop, a giant billboard smacked him in the eyes. Vermouth, no, Sharon's face was smiling, promoting some shit blockbusters she made. Initially, he scoffed, but then a light bulb lit up in his mind.

-o0o-

On a quiet film set, everyone held their breaths. Their eyes were glued to an actress in a dingy coffin hanging a few feet off the ground. Vermouth, aka Sharon, was coming to terms with her death as she recorded her last words on a crappy cell phone. Her entire body was riddled with dirt and sand.

Even though the crew could see that the coffin was open on one side and she could get out at any moment, the tension was palpable. Even though she shed no tears, her performance brought tears to their eyes.

The director wiped his eyes and yelled, "Cut! Good work, Sharon."

"Thank you." As soon as she heard his voice, all the emotions dissolved from her expression. She flashed him a faint smile and headed for her chair. Lisa—her ever-attentive assistant handed her a cup of water which she gratefully accepted.

The film set suddenly came to life. But the usual bustling was hindered by angry yells.

Vermouth asked Lisa, "What's the commotion?"

"I heard a stray cat snuck on the set and kept stealing food. When the guys chased it, it broke some very expensive equipment," Lisa said softly.

"Ah." Vermouth closed her eyes and ignored the world. It was the end of a twelve-hour shooting day. She was exhausted emotionally and physically. The scene took a toll on her. But the yelling was getting louder.

"Get back here! You're going straight to the pound!"

Suddenly, a flash of black landed on her lap, shocking her back to reality. In front of her, a majestically velvety cat sat gracefully, staring straight at her with shining green eyes. A sense of familiarity overwhelmed her. "Hello there."

"Sharon! I'm so sorry." A large man arrived, panting heavily. He was certainly the source of the yelling. "We're handling it."

"How? Exactly." Vermouth's words threw him in a loop.

"Uhm … there's a shelter …" He scratched the back of his neck.

When the last word rolled off of the man's tongue, the cat suddenly hissed. His tail went rigid. His hair became spiky.

Lisa frowned, full of doubt. "Sharon."

Vermouth contemplated, examining the vividly green eyes. Finally, she smiled and scratched the cat's head. "I'll take care of this. You can go back to work."

"But …"

"Send me the bills." Vermouth's simper stifled all of the man's comebacks. She picked up the ball of fur and buried her face into his softness. But she wasn't filled with bliss as an uncharacteristic scowl appeared on her face. She held Gin away from her and said, "Sweetie, you need a bath."

"What are you saying? I don't smell. It's musk. Manly musk." Gin yowled.

-o0o-

At first, Vermouth brought Gin to a pet salon, but after he gave the employees emotional breakdowns and almost started a riot with the other four-legged guests, she brought him home.

He was enveloped in Vermouth's arms, his paws blissfully on her bosom since he refused to get in a crate or any carrier. A smug grin spread on his lips as he sat on his throne. Yes, he had decided.

Being a stray wasn't fun. He hadn't been so comfortable in days. He rested his chin on her shoulder and waited patiently as she arrived home and bid her assistant goodbye.

She let him hop off and scanned the mountain of cat stuff overflowing from the coffee table to the floor. Comparing numerous cans of cat food in her hands, she said, "What do you want, sweetie? We have tuna, salmon, …"

A frown graced her forehead when a loud meow came from the dining room. Soon, she found him sitting on the dining table and pawing at her takeout dinner.

"I can smell salmon. You can't deceive me." Actual fatty king salmons from Alaska, not the crap they stuffed in a can.

"It's mine. You can't have it." She smiled and poured a can of tuna on a dish. The wet gray mess made her eyes narrow. Still, she placed the tuna in front of him. Maybe this paste was appetizing to cats.

Apparently, she was wrong as he completely ignored the food offering and determinedly kept a paw on the plastic takeout box. His voice grew louder. "Am I being too subtle? Feed me."

Instead of giving in, she frowned and buried her face in her phone, which made him impatient. His meows became incessant, his tail thrashing. "What are you doing, woman? Feed me. Feed me."

When he was on the edge of losing it, she opened the fridge and said, "We have some chicken breasts and a ribeye steak. Which one do you like?"

Wait, what?

"It's your first meal. I'm going with the steak." She placed the meat on a cutting board and gently patted it dry.

Are you … cooking? You're cooking! Woman, you show your true colors. You don't give a crap about me. He sneered and jumped on the kitchen counter to monitor the process. All the time they had dinner together in this very house, had she once offered to cook for him? No. Not once. Yet she cooked for a cat she had just met. A cat!

However, his grievance lessened as the sizzling steak started to emit a wafting aroma. He meowed his approval. "It does smell good."

"Thank you." She flashed him a smile that stunned him for a split second.

"Do you understand me?" He yowled.

"Yes, yes, yes. Almost done."

Thus, his joy quickly deflated. That woman's ego wanted a compliment, so she took his meow as a compliment.

-o0o-

Vermouth enjoyed her salmon salad and contentedly watched Gin chow down on his sliced up steak next to her on the dining table. "You remind me of someone I know. He's also grumpy and fussy."

Slander. I am not fussy.

"I'm starting to think you picked me on purpose."

He jumped out of his skin. His heart was thumping in his chest.

"Of all the people on that set." There must be hundreds, and he headed straight for her.

I'm a cat. I'm a cat. I'm a cat. He internally repeated the mantra and glued his face to the dish.

Then, her cooing erupted. "Aw, you just picked the prettiest lady you saw, didn't you?"

He let out a sigh of relief and sneered. Narcissism is a disorder, woman.

Full and content, he started grooming his face, disregarding the actress completely. As he lay down to reach the more difficult regions of his majestic body, she sneakily lifted the tail and said the worst thing, "Ah, you're a boy."

He stopped abruptly, motionless, seemingly frozen in time. How do cats commit suicide?

-o0o-

Vermouth sat at her vanity, slowly and meticulously removing her latex mask. Her long wavy tresses flowed freely down her back. The crow's feet in the corners of her eyes disappeared. She turned around and found a black cat staring back at her. "Are you scared, sweetie?"

He scoffed and jumped on her bed.

"Aren't you sweet?" She picked him up and placed a big kiss on his cheek, only for her nose to scrunch up slightly. "You do need a bath."

Although his magnificent body was perfectly clean, he didn't oppose the idea of bathing like other cats. But the thought of standing still for Vermouth to do whatever she desired struck a nerve.

"It's late already. Let's make this quick, shall we?"

He had no idea what was happening until she shed her clothes and brought him to the bathroom. He watched unblinkingly as warm water lingered on her curves, steam wafting from her body and clouding the glass.

She exited the shower with a large towel around her body and picked him up. "You seem fine with water. Your turn now. Will you be good for me?"

You can skin me.

As she squatted down and ran the showerhead along his fur, his mind went over every possibility. Do cats bathe every day?

He wouldn't say no.

-o0o-

He stood proudly on the marble countertop of the bathroom vanity as Vermouth tended to his need. The hair dryer did wonders to his already magnificent fur. His silky, velvety coat became even fluffier. Witnessing his ease around household appliances, she scratched his chin while blowing dry the last bit on his tail end. "You were a house cat, weren't you? What happened? Did you get lost?" She smirked. "Chasing after pretty girls?"

"As if." He wanted to scoff but what came out was a blissful purr. Her manicured fingernails hit the spot he didn't even know existed.

"Do you miss your master?"

"In your dream." He uncharacteristically purred. The strange feeling was too good to resist. "But I miss my Porsche and my cigarettes …"

Suddenly, she put him down on the floor, much to his annoyance. "Alright, you're done."

"How dare you stop, woman? I didn't tell you to stop." He yowled and jumped back on the countertop.

"I'll be right out." She smiled and aimed the hairdryer at her golden locks.

He narrowed his eyes and scoffed before waltzing into her bedroom with his head held high as if he owned the place.

-o0o-

Vermouth came out of the bathroom in her lacy nightgown to find a curled-up furball on her pillow. She chuckled and placed a tender kiss on his snoozing head. "Good night, sweetie."

His night was dreamless and sound.

-o0o-

Author's note:

"What are you saying? I don't smell. It's musk. Manly musk."

This is exactly what I think my cat was yelling at me when I tortured him with warm water and shampoo.